C',HM.SN!E    LACERTEUX 


E.&J.dc  GONCOURT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE     FIRST    EDITION    OF    THIS 
BOOK   CONSISTS   OF    THREE 
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THIS    IS   NUMBERl.43 


GERMINIE  LACERTEUX 


UNIFORM  WITH  THIS   VOLUME 
MADAME  BOVARY 

BY  GUSTAVE   FLAUBERT 

Translated  Jrom  the  French 

by  ELEANOR  MARX-AVEUNC 

\Vitb  an  Introduction 

by  BURTON  RASCOE 

MANON  LESCAUT 

BY   THE  ABBE    PREVOST 

Translated  Jrom  the  French 

With  an  Introduction 

by  BURTON  RASCOE 

MLLE.  DE  MAUPIN 

BY   THEOPHILE   GAUTIER 

Translated  from  the  French 

With  an  Introduction 

by  BURTON  RASCOE 

NANA 

BY    EMILE   ZOLA 

Translated  Jrom  the  French 

With  an  Introduction 

by  ERNEST  BOVD 


GERMINIE 
LACERTEUX 

BY 

EDMOND  AND  JULES  DE  GONCOURT 

Translated  from  the  French. 
With  an  Introduction 

by  ERNEST   BOYD 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  '  A  '  KNOPF 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Publitkfd  Stpumbtr.  1933 


Composition,  electrotypint,  printing  and  binding  by 

Tke  Plimpton  Press,  Norwood,  Mass. 
Paper  supplied  by  W.  P.  Etherinfton  fir  Co.,  Nev  York,  If.  7. 

MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


College 
Library 

' 


INTRODUCTION 

MODERN  FRENCH  LITERATURE  is,  / 
fMn&,  unique  in  the  number  of  instances  where 
brothers  have  made  their  names  by  work  written 
in  collaboration.  The  first  of  such  partnership  was  that 
of  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt,  who  have  been  followed 
by  Paul  and  Victor  Margueritte,  "J.  H.  Rosny,"  and 
Jean  and  Jerome  Tbaraud,  all  oj  whom  have  been  asso- 
ciated in  one  way  or  another  with  their  great  predecessors. 
The  two  brothers  "Rosny"  and  Paul  Margueritte  are 
members  of  the  Goncourt  Academy,  while  the  Tbarauds' 
first  considerable  work,  Dingley,  Pillustre  ecrivain,  re- 
ceived one  of  the  earliest  of  the  Goncourt  prizes.  Since 
the  honour  of  winning  that  Prize  is  almost  equalled  by  the 
distinction  of  nearly  getting  it,  it  ought  perhaps  to  be  re- 
corded that  the  brothers  whose  signature  is  Marius  Ary 
Leblond  achieved  that  degree  of  fame  on  the  second  occa- 
sion when  the  Goncourt  Prize  was  awarded  in  1904!  How- 
ever, I  do  not  wish  to  stress  unduly  the  natural  interest 
which  the  Goncourt  Academy  must  have  in  the  work  of 
brother  collaborators,  for  the  partnership  of  "J.  H.  Rosny" 
has  resolved  itself  into  the  separate  use  of  their  joint  pseu- 
donym, with  the  addition  of  "Junior"  and  "Senior," 
while  Paul  and  Victor  Margueritte  parted  company  after 
some  years.  Thus  Jean  and  Jerome  Tharaud  remain 
the  most  important  examples  of  the  method  of  collabora- 
tion which  made  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt  famous. 
How  closely  the  latter  worked  together,  and  how  identi- 
cal their  minds  were,  has  been  attested  by  innumerable 


INTRODUCTION 

passages  in  that  famous  Journal  des  Goncourts  which 
so  largely  occupied  the  closing  years  oj  the  surviving 
brother's  life.  In  the  last  volume  Edmond  has  left  an 
interesting  account  of  their  collaboration.  "Our  tempera- 
ments," be  says,  "were  absolutely  different:  my  brother's 
nature  was  gay,  spirited  and  expansive;  mine  was  melan- 
choly, dreamy  and  concentrated,"  but  if  they  looked  at  the 
exterior  world  with  different  eyes  they  received  the  same 
impressions.  "My  brother,  I  confess,  was  a  greater  styl- 
ist, be  bad  more  power  over  words,  than  I,  whose  only 
advantage  over  him  was  my  greater  capacity  for  visualis- 
ing the  world  about  us.  .  .  .  When  we  began  my  brother 
was  under  the  influence  of  Jules  Janin  and  I  under  that 
of  Tbeopbile  Gautier,  and  in  En  18  .  .  .  these  two  ill- 
assorted  models  are  recognisable,  giving  to  our  first  book 
the  character  of  a  work  from  two  distinct  pens"  As  their 
work  progressed  there  came  "the  fusion,  the  amalgamation 
of  our  two  styles,  which  united  in  the  creation  of  a  single 
style,  very  personal,  peculiarly  Goncourt."  Finally  it 
came  about  that  Jules  de  Goncourt  "  attended  particularly 
to  the  writing  and  I  to  the  construction  of  the  work.  He 
was  seized  with  a  rather  contemptuous  disinclination  to 
seek,  to  find  and  to  invent,  although  be  could  always  ima- 
gine a  more  striking  detail  than  I  when  be  took  the  trouble." 
The  younger  brother  always  protested  against  the  multipli- 
cation of  books  and  Edmond  declares  that  it  was  largely 
out  of  affection  for  him  that  Jules  was  induced  to  go  on. 
"I  was  born,"  the  latter  used  to  say,  "to  write  in  a  life- 
time just  one  little  duodecimo  volume  like  la  Bruyere, 
just  one  little  volume.'' 

Their  actual  method  of  working  together  was  described 
by  Edmond  de  Goncourt  in  a  letter  to  Georg  Brandes. 
"As  soon  as  we  bad  agreed  as  to  the  plan,  we  would  smoke 
for  an  hour  or  two  and  talk  over  the  section,  or  rather  the 
paragraph,  which  bad  to  be  written.  Then  we  wrote  it,  each 

C  viii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

in  a  separate  room,  and  read  to  each  other  what  each  oj 
us  bad  written,  either  choosing  without  discussion  which- 
ever was  the  better,  or  making  a  combination  of  whatever 
was  least  imperfect  in  the  two  compositions.  But  even 
when  one  oj  the  two  was  completely  sacrificed,  there  was 
always  something  of  both  in  the  paragraph  when  definitely 
arranged  and  polished,  though  it  might  be  only  the  addi- 
tion of  an  adjective,  the  repetition  of  a  phrase,  or  the  like." 
Out  of  that  collaboration  came  Soeur  Philomene,  Renee 
Mauperin,  Germinie  Lacerteux,  Manette  Salmon  and 
Madame  Gervaisais,  not  to  mention  their  'prentice  efforts, 
En  1 8  .  . ,  La  Lorette  and  Charles  Demailly.  After  bis 
brother's  death  Edmond  de  Goncourt  wrote  four  novels, 
La  Fille  Elisa,  Les  Freres  Zemganno,  La  Faustin  and 
Cherie,  and  it  is  on  these  twelve  works  of  fiction  that  the 
fame  of  the  brothers  Goncourt  rests,  although  as  the  social 
historians  of  eighteenth  century  France,  and  as  connois- 
seurs of  French  and  Japanese  art,  their  achievements 
have  been  recognised  by  specialists. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  body  of  first-rate  fiction 
whose  history  has  been  more  full  of  accidents  and  contro- 
versies than  the  novels  of  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt. 
They  began  their  career  with  En  18  .  .,  which  appeared 
on  December  2,  1851,  the  day  selected  for  the  coup 
d'etat  which  gave  France  her  Third  Napoleon  and  her 
Second  Empire.  The  panic-stricken  publisher,  fearful 
of  the  political  heresies  which  might  be  concealed  in  this 
youthful  work,  at  once  got  rid  of  it,  and  in  the  turmoil  of  the 
times  little  attention  was  paid  to  the  few  copies  which 
managed  to  circulate.  Jules  Janin,  doubtless  recognising 
the  style  of  a  disciple,  gave  the  book  a  long  review  in  the 
Journal  des  Debats,  but  Paris  was  busy  with  more  press- 
ing matters  than  the  debut  of  the  brothers  Goncourt.  A 
year  later  the  discretion  of  their  publisher  was  proven  by 
the  fact  that  the  authors  were  accused  of  publishing  an 


INTRODUCTION 

article  which  was  an  outrage  on  public  morals.  They  bad 
quoted  some  lines  by  Tabureau  from  Sainte-Beuve's 
Tableau  historique  et  critique  de  la  poesie  francaise, 
which  the  moral  regime  oj  the  newly-fledged  Empire  re- 
garded as  obscene,  although  this  work  (now  Jamiliar  in 
the  college  class-room)  bad  been  crowned  by  the  French 
Academy!  The  case  was  going  against  them,  but  a  post- 
ponement was  secured,  and  in  the  interval  a  change  in  the 
judiciary  gave  the  Goncourts  a  powerful  Jriend  in  court, 
with  the  result  that  they  were  acquitted.  The  verdict  was 
very  like  that  delivered  in  the  case  oj  Madame  Bovary, 
and  is  worth  quoting,  "  Whereas  the  incriminating  pas- 
sages oj  the  article  suggest  to  the  mind  oj  the  reader  pictures 
which  are  obviously  licentious  and,  therefore,  reprehensible, 
nevertheless,  it  is  evident  from  the  article  as  a  whole  that 
the  authors  oj  the  work  in  question  bad  no  intention 
oj  committing  an  offense  against  decency  and  public 
morals." 

In  1853  L3-  Lorette,  a  novel  which  has  been  allowed 
to  lapse  into  the  limbo  oj  rare  editions,  caused  the  authors 
some  apprehension,  as  the  authorities  bad  marked  them 
as  dangerous  characters.  An  entry  in  the  Journal  states 
that  this  book,  whose  title  indicates  its  nature,  was  "sold 
out  within  a  week,"  and  was  "a  revelation  to  us  that  it 
was  possible  to  sell  a  book."  This  now  unprocurable 
work  is,  by  a  characteristic  irony  of  literary  fate,  the  only 
publication  of  the  Goncourts  which  gave  rise  to  no  diffi- 
culties, and  about  whose  reception  they  have  recorded  no 
complaint.  Charles  Demailly  (1860),  which  was  origi- 
nally entitled  Les  hommes  de  lettres,  bad  little  success 
and  was  denounced  as  an  unfriendly  attack  upon  the 
sacred  order  of  men  of  letters  by  the  .  .  .  journalists. 
It  was  not  until  1861  that  the  first  of  their  major  novels, 
Soeur  Philomene,  appeared  after  many  difficulties,  hav- 
ing been  refused  by  Michel  Levy  on  the  ground  that  the 


INTRODUCTION 

subject  was  depressing.  It  eventually  had  what  the  Gon- 
courts  describe  as  the  "triste  succes"  oj  being  issued  by 
an  unimportant  firm,  and  of  being  more  or  less  ignored. 
In  this  work,  and  its  successor,  Renee  Mauperin  (1864), 
Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt  definitely  developed  the 
method  both  in  the  selection  of  the  theme  and  its  develop- 
ment which  was  to  be  their  special  contribution  to  the 
modern  French  novel.  But  it  was  in  Germinie  Lacer- 
teux,  that  they  launched  their  most  striking  challenge  to 
all  hitherto  accepted  conventions. 

This  work  was  published  in  1864,  with  a  preface  which 
began:  "We  must  apologise  to  the  public  for  giving" 
"them  this  book,  and  warn  them  of  its  contents.  The" 
"public  like  novels  that  are  untrue.  This  is  a  true  novel. " 
"They  like  books  which  seem  to  take  them  into  society:" 
"this  work  comes  from  the  streets.  They  like  nasty  little" 
"works,  the  reminiscences  of  prostitutes,  bedroom  con-" 
"fessions,  erotic  filth,  the  scandals  indecently  exposed  in" 
"booksellers'  windows.  What  they  are  about  to  read  is" 
"severe  and  pure.  They  need  not  expect  photographs  of 
"Pleasure  in  evening-dress.  This  is  a  clinical  study  of" 
"Love." 

"Furthermore  the  public  like  harmless  and  comforting" 
"stories,  adventures  that  end  happily,  ideas  which  dis-" 
"turb  neither  their  digestion  nor  their  peace  of  mind." 
"This  book,  with  its  harsh  and  sad  fable  is  designed  to" 
"interfere  with  their  habits  and  to  upset  their  health." 

"  Why,  then,  did  we  write  it?  Was  it  simply  to  shock" 
"the  public  and  to  insult  their  tastes?" 

"No." 

"Living  in  the  nineteenth  century,  in  a  time  of  univer-" 
"sal  suffrage,  of  democracy,  of  liberalism,  we  wondered" 
<f  whether  what  are  called  'the  lower  orders'  were  not  en-" 
"titled  to  a  place  in  fiction,  whether  that  world  beneath" 
"a  world,  the  common  people,  was  to  remain  under  a'' 


INTRODUCTION 

"literary  taboo,  disdained  by  authors  who  have  hitherto" 
"maintained  a  silence  concerning  whatever  heart  and" 
"soul  they  may  possess." 

Such,  in  part,  was  the  manifesto  with  which  the  Con- 
courts  invited  a  public  previously  preoccupied  with  the 
tragedies  oj  kings  and  queens  and  the  romance  and  sorrows 
oj  high  society  to  contemplate  the  life  below  and  about 
them.  It  was  only  seven  years  since  Flaubert  bad  shaken 
the  literary  conventions  to  their  foundations  with  Madame 
Bovary,  but  in  Germinie  Lacerteux  a  great  step  further 
was  taken.  The  consequences  are  apparent  in  the  recep- 
tion which  the  book  obtained.  The  mandarins  of  the  time 
ignored  it,  while  the  orthodox  reviewers  surpassed  them- 
selves in  the  manner  peculiar  to  their  tribe.  One  of  the 
chief  articles,  anticipating  the  English  critics  of  Ibsen, 
described  the  book  as  "putrid  literature,"  and  the  writer, 
Professor  Gustave  Merlet,  declared  be  bad  "hesitated  be- 
fore discussing  the  actions  and  reactions  of  Germinie 
Lacerteux,  who  does  not  deserve  to  occupy  the  leisure  time 
of  decent  people."  Charles  Monselet,  an  author  some- 
what less  obscure,  if  only  because  of  bis  contributions  to 
erotica,  could  find  no  better  epithet  than  "sculptured 
slime"  to  apply  to  this  work.  But  it  bad  one  admirer 
whose  fame  was  to  grow  out  of  the  Naturalistic  movement, 
which  dates  from  the  publication  of  Germinie  Lacerteux. 
Emile  Zola  was  a  young  and  unknown  author  when  be 
published  in  a  provincial  newspaper  an  enthusiastic 
defense  of  the  Goncourts,  which  was  subsequently  in- 
cluded in  the  volume  of  essays  Mes  Haines,  and  led  to  an 
exchange  of  letters,  and  three  years  later  to  a  meeting  and 
a  lifelong  friendship.  Zola's  courageous  article,  in  which 
be  did  not  hesitate  to  set  the  authors  of  Germinie  Lacer- 
teux beside  Balzac  and  Flaubert,  bad  a  supporter  in  that 
of  another  young  writer,  Jules  Claretie,  whose  article 
appeared  in  the  Nouvelle  Revue  de  Paris.  Claretie 


INTRODUCTION 

showed  himself  equally  appreciative  but  somewhat  less 
rhapsodical  than  Zola,  whose  critical  faculties  never  seem 
to  have  been  particularly  subtle.  He  pleased  the  Gon- 
courts  specially  by  bis  ingenious  comparison  of  Germinie 
Lacerteux  with  Sceur  Philom£ne,  and  bis  feeling  for  the 
peculiar  quality  of  their  minds.  "  This  talent,"  be  wrote, 
"supple  and  bold,  charming  and  violent  at  the  same  time, 
deliberately  avoiding  what  attracts  the  mob,  aristocratic 
to  the  point  of  reproaching  the  Revolution,  amongst  other 
misdeeds,  of  having  scattered  all  the  brilliant  frills  and 
furbelows  of  the  Old  Regime,  in  love  with  what  is  bright, 
pretty,  powdered,  silken,  and  also  with  what  is  harsh, 
ardent  and  virile,  —  this  talent  which  is  sometimes  bizarre, 
always  superior;  this  talent  so  wide  in  its  scope  and  so 
complete,  is  one  which  I  cannot  resist  and  prefer  to  all 
others"  In  this  one  sentence  the  whole  essence  of  the  Con- 
courts'  contradictory  appeal  is  aptly  given. 

Sainte-Beuve  was  as  discreet  as  when  Baudelaire's 
Fleurs  du  Mai  was  in  trouble.  He  preferred  to  express 
bis  sympathy  in  a  private  letter  rather  than  on  the  printed 
page.  His  critical  acumen,  however,  is  evident  in  bis 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  a  new  era  in  French  fiction 
bad  begun,  and  that  a  new  aesthetic  was  needed  to  criti- 
cise the  new  literature.  Flaubert  and  Victor  Hugo  were 
also  enthusiastic.  The  former  wrote:  "  What  I  most  ad- 
mire in  your  work  is  the  gradation  of  the  effects,  the 
psychological  progression.  It  is  heartrending  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  in  places  simply  sublime  .  .  . 
The  great  question  of  realism  was  never  so  frankly  pro- 
pounded. Your  book  gives  rise  to  some  pretty  arguments 
as  to  the  purpose  of  art."  Ten  years  or  so  later,  when  the 
book  bad  slowly  reached  its  third  edition,  the  press  was 
much  more  favourable,  Madame  Alpbonse  Daudet  wrote 
a  remarkable  appreciation  in  the  august  columns  of  the 
Journal  Official,  and  Henry  Ceard,  now  of  the  Goncourt 

I  xiii  3 


INTRODUCTION 

Academy,  one  oj  the  oldest  survivors  oj  the  original  circle, 
risked  bis  post  at  the  Ministry  oj  War  by  an  article  in 
praise  oj  the  work  of  the  Goncourts.  It  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  time  for  the  authors  of  Germinie  Lacerteux  to 
find  themselves  saluted  as  the  leaders  oj  the  Naturalistic 
School. 

The  genesis  oj  this  work  can  be  found  in  the  second 
volume  oj  the  Journal  des  Goncourts,  where  the  brothers 
tell  oj  the  illness  and  death  of  their  old  servant  Rose  who 
bad  been  with  them  for  twenty-five  years.  They  learn  after 
the  funeral  that  this  trusted  and  devoted  servant  bad  led  an 
amazing  double  life,  that  she  was  drunken  and  debauched, 
that  she  bad  stolen  from  them.  While  they  were  absorbed 
in  their  art  this  silent  creature  bad  lived  through  unspeak- 
able fears  and  sufferings,  through  terrible  joys  and  the 
lowest  depths  of  despair.  Out  of  that  pitiful  tale  they 
built  up  this  wonderful  novel  of  a  woman  ruined  through 
her  craving  for  love  and  affection,  which  is  simultaneously 
a  masterpiece  of  imaginative  reconstruction  and  a  scien- 
tific work  of  documentation,  as  the  entries  in  the  author's 
diary  of  the  period  show.  They  turned  from  Marie- 
Antoinette  to  Germinie  Lacerteux,  and,  as  Henry  Ceard 
said,  "in  their  eyes  as  artists  the  country  girl  arriving 
from  Langres  covered  with  lice  was  no  less  interesting 
than  the  French  queen  in  her  blue  dress  shot  through  with 
white.  They  brought  to  the  novel  the  severity  of  their  his- 
torical exactness." 

This  is  the  book  which  made  the  Goncourts  famous, 
though  both  brothers  did  not  live  long  enough  to  witness 
their  success.  The  younger  brother,  Jules,  who  was  born 
in  Paris  in  1830,  died  in  1870,  but  Edmond,  born  at 
Nancy  in  1822,  lived  until  1896,  thus  surviving  by  an 
entire  literary  generation.  Zola  began  the  Rougon-Mac- 
quart  series  in  1871  and  the  campaign  of  the  Naturalists 
was  in  full  swing  when  Germinie  Lacerteux  bad  its 


INTRODUCTION 

success,  which  was  confirmed  after  Jules  de  Goncourt's 
death  by  La  Fille  Elisa,  the  first  novel  which  appeared 
without  their  joint  signature,  although  Edmond  de- 
clared that  this  powerful  work  was  but  the  reali- 
sation of  a  plan  thoroughly  discussed  by  the  two 
brothers.  When  Zola's  L'Assommoir  was  published 
the  indebtedness  of  the  new  school  to  Germinie  Lacer- 
teux  was  apparent  and  Zola,  Huysmans,  Ceard  and  the 
others  were  only  too  proud  to  claim  the  Goncourts  as  their 
masters.  Zola,  however,  represented  the  Left,  or  radical, 
wing  of  realism,  while  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt 
stood  for  the  Right,  or  aristocratic,  section.  As  Natural- 
ism developed  it  became  increasingly  an  appeal  to  mass 
suggestion,  and  relied  more  and  more  upon  mass  effects, 
the  endless  piling  up  of  detail,  the  ceaseless  extension  of 
the  field  of  observation  and  documentation.  With  this 
phase  of  the  movement  the  Goncourts  bad  nothing  in 
common. 

They  were  essentially  and  primarily  artists,  and  if 
they  claimed  for  the  novelist  the  right  to  transcribe  reality, 
it  was  reality  as  seen  through  artistic  vision,  not  through  the 
eyes  of  a  mere  reporter.  Life  as  the  Goncourts  saw  it  was 
far  from  the  immense  and  crude  reality  of  Zola.  While 
they  sought  to  reach  the  heart  of  things  through  a  meticu- 
lous realisation  of  externals,  Zola  professed  to  be  a  scien- 
tist, a  social  anatomist,  whose  novels  would  have  the  pre- 
cision and  practical  value  of  scientific  studies.  It  did  not 
take  long  to  demonstrate  that  this  conception  of  realism  led 
through  monotony  and  repetition  to  the  inevitable  assump- 
tion of  a  democratic  mission.  Zola  ended  as  reformer 
and  a  Messiah  with  a  panacea  and  a  message  for  human- 
ity. Oblivion  was  imminent.  Edmond  de  Goncourt 
resolutely  held  aloof  in  those  last  novels,  La  Faustin, 
Les  Freres  Zemganno  and  Cherie,  from  the  current 
practice  of  bis  disciples.  And  so  bis  work  and  that  of  bis 


INTRODUCTION 

brother  — for  to  the  end  they  remained  indistinguishable 
-  still  survive  with  that  oj  Flaubert,  because  they  created 
works  oj  art  in  which  reality  endures  through  the  spirit 
oj  HJe  breathed  into  them  by  imagination  that  embraces 
and  transcends  the  exterior  world. 

ERNEST  BOYD 

New  York 
June  1922. 


GERMINIE  LACERTEUX 


I 


so  now  you  are  saved,  mademoi- 
selle!"  joyfully  cried  the  maid  who  had 
just  shut  the  door  after  the  doctor,  and, 
rushing  to  the  bed  in  which  her  mistress  was 
lying,  she  began  in  a  frenzy  of  happiness  and 
with  passionate  caresses  to  embrace,  bed-clothes 
and  all,  the  old  woman's  poor  wasted  body, 
which  seemed  as  small  for  the  size  of  the  bed  as 
the  body  of  a  child. 

The  old  woman  took  her  head  silently  between 
her  hands,  pressed  it  to  her  heart,  heaved  a  sigh, 
and  ejaculated:  "Well!  so  I  am  to  live  some  time 
longer!" 

This  scene  took  place  in  a  small  room  the  win- 
dow of  which  showed  a  narrow  strip  of  sky  inter- 
sected by  three  black  iron  pipes,  by  lines  of  roofs, 
and,  in  the  distance  between  two  houses  which 
nearly  touched  each  other,  by  the  leafless  branches 
of  a  tree  which  could  not  itself  be  seen. 

In  the  room  there  stood  on  the  mantelpiece 
a  clock  with  a  square,  mahogany  case,  a  large 
dial-plate,  big  numbers,  and  heavy  hours.  At 
the  sides,  and  under  glass,  were  two  candlesticks, 
each  formed  of  three  silvered  swans  stretching 

CO 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

their  necks  round  a  golden  quiver.  Near  the 
fire-place,  a  Voltaire  easy-chair,  covered  with  one 
of  those  chequered  antimacassars  which  are  worked 
by  little  girls  and  old  women,  extended  its  empty 
arms.  Two  small  Italian  landscapes  in  the  manner 
of  Bertin,  a  water-color  drawing  of  flowers  with 
a  date  in  red  ink  at  the  bottom,  and  a  few  minia- 
tures hung  on  the  wall.  On  the  mahogany  chest 
of  drawers,  in  the  style  of  the  Empire,  stood  the 
figure  of  Time  in  black  bronze,  running  with  his 
scythe  advanced,  and  serving  as  a  watch-stand 
for  a  little  watch  with  diamond  figures  on  blue, 
pearl-bordered  enamel.  On  the  floor  stretched 
a  flaring  carpet  with  stripes  of  black  and  green. 
The  window-curtains  and  bed-curtains  were  of 
old-fashioned  chintz  with  red  patterns  on  a  choco- 
late ground. 

At  the  head  of  the  bed,  a  portrait  bent  over  the 
sick  woman  and  seemed  to  bear  down  upon  her 
with  its  gaze.  It  represented  a  harsh-featured 
man,  whose  countenance  showed  above  the  high 
collar  of  a  green  satin  coat  and  one  of  those 
loose,  flowing  cravats,  one  of  those  muslin  scarfs 
which  it  was  fashionable  to  tie  slackly  round  the 
neck  in  the  early  years  of  the  Revolution.  The 
old  woman  lying  in  the  bed  resembled  this  face. 
She  had  the  same  thick,  black,  imperious  eye- 
brows, the  same  aquiline  nose,  the  same  distinct 
lines  of  will,  resolution  and  energy.  The  portrait 
seemed  to  be  reflected  in  her  as  a  father's  face  is 

CO 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

in  that  of  his  daughter.  But  in  her  the  harshness 
of  the  features  was  softened  by  a  ray  of  rugged 
kindness,  a  flame,  as  it  were,  of  manly  devotion 
and  masculine  charity. 

The  daylight  which  illumined  the  room  was 
such  as  is  common  in  early  spring  towards  five 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  which  has  crystal  clear- 
ness and  silver  whiteness,  which  is  cold,  virginal 
and  gentle,  and  which  expires  in  the  rosy  hue 
of  the  sun  with  the  paleness  of  limbo.  The  sky 
was  filled  with  this  light  which  is  like  that  of  a  new 
life,  as  charmingly  sad  as  the  still  naked  earth, 
and  so  tender  that  it  impels  happiness  to  weep. 

"Why!  is  my  foolish  Germinie  crying?"  said  the 
old  woman  a  moment  afterwards  drawing  back 
her  hands  which  were  wet  from  her  maid's  kisses. 

"Ah!  dear  lady,  I'd  like  to  cry  like  this  always! 
it's  so  nice!  It  brings  back  my  poor  mother  to 
me,  and  everything,  if  you  only  knew!" 

"Well,  well,"  said  her  mistress  to  her,  closing 
her  eyes  to  listen,  "tell  me  about  it." 

"Ah!  my  poor  mother!"  The  maid  paused. 
Then  with  the  flood  of  words  which  springs  from 
happy  tears  she  went  on,  as  though  in  the  emotion 
and  the  outpouring  of  her  joy  her  whole  child- 
hood were  flowing  back  to  her  heart:-  "Poor 
woman!  I  can  see  her  the  last  time  she  went  out 
to  take  me  to  mass,  —  it  was  a  2ist  of  January, 
I  remember.  They  were  reading  the  king's  will 
then.  Ah!  she  went  through  a  great  deal  for  me, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

did  mother!  she  was  forty-two  years  old  when 
she  had  me,  and  father  made  her  cry  so!  There 
were  three  of  us  already  and  not  too  much  bread 
in  the  house.  And  then  he  was  as  proud  as  any- 
thing. If  we'd  had  nothing  but  a  pod  of  peas, 
he'd  never  have  looked  for  help  from  the  priest. 
Ah!  we  didn't  have  bacon  every  day.  No  matter; 
mother  loved  me  a  little  more  for  it  all,  and  she 
always  found  a  bit  of  dripping  or  cheese  some- 
where or  other  to  put  on  my  bread.  I  wasn't 
five  years  old  when  she  died.  It  was  a  misfortune 
for  all  of  us. 

"I  had  a  big  brother  who  was  as  white  as  a 
sheet,  with  a  yellow  beard,  and  so  good,  you 
can't  think!  Everyone  liked  him.  They  had  given 
him  names  —  some  called  him  Boda,  I  don't  know 
why;  and  the  others  Jesus  Christ.  Ah,  he  was 
a  workman!  It  made  no  odds  that  his  health 
was  as  bad  as  could  be;  at  daybreak  he  was 
always  at  his  loom  --  for  you  must  know  we  were 
weavers  —  and  he  kept  to  his  shuttle  till  the 
evening.  And  so  honest,  too,  if  you  only  knew! 
They  came  to  him  from  all  parts  with  their  thread, 
and  always  without  weighing.  He  was  a  great 
friend  of  the  schoolmaster's  —  it  was  he  made 
the  speeches  at  Carnival  time.  My  father  was 
very  different:  he  would  work  a  minute  or  an 
hour  or  so,  then  he  would  go  off  to  the  fields, 
then  when  he  came  in  again  he  would  beat  us  — 
and  hard  too.  He  was  like  a  madman  —  they 

C43 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

said  it  came  of  being  consumptive.  It  was  a 
good  thing  my  brother  was  there:  he  used  to 
prevent  my  second  sister  from  pulling  my  hair 
and  hurting  me,  because  she  was  jealous.  He  used 
always  to  take  me  by  the  hand  to  go  and  see  the 
skittles  played :  indeed,  he  was  the  sole  support  of 
the  house. 

"How  he  slaved  for  my  first  communion!  Ah, 
he  turned  out  his  work  so  fast  that  I  might  be 
like  the  rest,  with  a  white  figured  frock  and  a 
little  bag  in  my  hand,  for  that  was  the  custom 
then.  I  had  no  cap:  I  had  made  for  me,  I  remem- 
ber, a  pretty  wreath,  with  favors  of  the  white 
pith  you  get  by  peeling  reeds  —  there's  plenty 
of  it  about  our  home  in  the  place  where  the  hemp 
is  put  to  rot.  That  was  one  of  my  great  days, 
that  was,  that  and  the  drawing  for  pigs  at  Christ- 
mas, and  the  times  when  I  used  to  go  and  help 
them  to  prop  the  vines,  —  it's  in  the  month  of 
June,  you  know.  We  had  a  little  vineyard  on 
the  top  of  Saint-Hilaire.  One  of  those  years  was 
a  very  hard  one  —  you  remember  it,  mademoi- 
selle?—  the  hail  of  1828,  which  destroyed  every- 
thing. It  came  down  as  far  as  Dijon,  and  further 
still  —  they  were  obliged  to  put  bran  into  the 
bread.  Then  my  brother  just  buried  himself  in 
his  work.  My  father,  who  at  that  time  was 
always  out  roaming  in  the  fields,  would  sometimes 
bring  us  home  mushrooms.  It  was  misery  all  the 
same  —  we  were  hungry  more  often  than  not. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

When  I  was  in  the  fields  I'd  look  to  see  whether 
anyone  was  watching  me,  then  I'd  slip  along  very 
gently  on  my  knees,  and  when  I  was  under  a  cow 
I'd  take  off  one  of  my  wooden  shoes,  and  begin 
to  milk  her.  You  see  it  wouldn't  have  done  to 
be  caught 

"My  biggest  sister  was  in  service  with  the  mayor 
of  Lenclos,  and  she  used  to  send  home  her  twenty- 
four  francs  of  wages  —  it  was  so  much  to  the  good. 
The  second  used  to  work  at  sewing  in  the  houses  of 
the  towns-people,  but  prices  were  not  then  what 
they  are  now  —  you'd  go  from  six  in  the  morning 
till  night  for  eight  sous.  Out  of  that  she  tried  to 
save  something  for  dressing  herself  in  holiday 
style  on  Saint  Remi's  day.  Ah,  that's  how  it  is 
with  us.  There's  many  a  one  eats  two  potatoes 
a  day  for  six  months,  in  order  to  have  a  new  dress 
on  that  day.  Misfortunes  came  upon  us  from  all 
sides.  My  father  died.  It  had  been  necessary 
to  sell  a  little  field  and  a  vineyard  that  gave  us 
a  cask  of  wine  every  year.  The  notaries  cost 
something.  When  my  brother  was  ill  there  was 
nothing  to  give  him  to  drink  except  some  stum, 
which  had  had  water  thrown  into  it  for  a  year 
past;  and  then  there  was  no  linen  left  for  a  change 
for  him:  all  our  sheets  in  the  cupboard,  where 
there  used  to  be  a  gold  cross  above  them  in 
mother's  time,  were  gone,  and  the  cross  too. 

"To  make  matters  worse,  my  brother,  before 
he  fell  sick,  went  to  the  Clermont  Fair.  He 

C6] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

heard  them  say  that  my  sister  had  been  seduced 
by  the  mayor:  he  fell  upon  those  that  said  so. 
He  wasn't  very  strong  and  there  was  a  number 
of  them,  and  they  threw  him  on  the  ground,  and 
when  he  was  on  the  ground  they  kicked  him  with 
their  wooden  shoes  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
He  was  brought  back  to  us  like  a  dead  man. 
However,  the  doctor  set  him  on  his  feet  again, 
and  told  us  he  was  cured.  But  he  only  lingered 
—  I  could  see  myself  that  he  was  going  when  he 
used  to  kiss  me.  When  the  poor,  pale  darling 
was  dead,  Cadet  Ballard  had  to  use  all  his  strength 
to  drag  me  away  from  the  body.  The  whole 
village  went  to  his  funeral,  mayor  and  all.  My 
sister,  who  had  not  been  able  to  keep  her  place 
in  the  mayor's  house  on  account  of  the  way  he 
used  to  talk  to  her,  had  left  for  a  situation  in 
Paris,  and  my  other  sister  followed  her.  I  was 
quite  alone.  A  cousin  of  my  mother's  then  took 
me  with  her  to  Damblin;  but  I  was  like  a  fish 
out  of  water  there.  I  used  to  spend  the  night 
in  crying;  and  when  I  could  escape,  I  always 
returned  to  our  own  house.  Just  to  see  the  old 
vine  at  our  gate  as  I  entered  the  street  had  such 
an  effect  on  me!  It  gave  me  new  legs. 

"The  good  people  who  had  bought  the  house 
used  to  keep  me  until  someone  came  to  look  for 
me;  they  were  always  sure  to  find  me  there 
again.  At  last  they  wrote  to  my  sister  in  Paris 
that  if  she  did  not  have  me  with  her  I  should  not 


GERM1NIE    LACERTEUX 

be  long  for  this  world.  In  fact  I  was  like  wax. 
I  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  the  driver  of  a 
small  conveyance  which  went  every  month  from 
Langres  to  Paris;  and  that  was  the  way  I  came 
to  Paris.  I  was  then  fourteen  years  old.  I 
remember  that  during  the  whole  journey  I  lay 
down  fully  dressed  because  they  made  me  sleep 
in  the  common  room.  When  I  arrived  I  was 
covered  with  lice." 


T 


II 


HE  old   woman   remained   silent.    She  was 
comparing   her   maid's   life   with   her   own. 


Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  was  born  in  1782. 
Her  birth  took  place  in  a  house  in  the  Rue  Royale, 
and  Mesdames  of  France  held  her  over  the  baptis- 
mal font.  Her  father  was  intimate  with  the  Count 
d'Artois,  and  held  a  post  in  his  household.  He 
was  a  member  of  his  hunting  parties,  and  one 
of  those  familiar  friends  in  whose  presence,  at 
the  mass  which  preceded  the  hunt,  the  man  who 
was  to  be  Charles  X.  would  hurry  the  officiating 
priest,  saying  to  him  in  an  undertone: 

"Hist!  hist!  parson,  be  quick  and  swallow  up 
your  Bon  Dieu!" 

Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  had  made  one  of  those 
marriages  to  which  his  time  was  accustomed; 
he  had  wedded  a  sort  of  actress,  a  singer  who, 
without  any  great  talent,  had  succeeded  at  the 
Concert  Spirituel  by  the  side  of  Madame  Todi, 
Madame  Ponteuil,  and  Madame  Saint-Huberti. 
The  little  girl  born  of  this  marriage  in  1782  was 
of  a  weakly  constitution,  and  ugly,  with  a  large 
and  already  ridiculous  nose  like  her  father's  on 


ERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

a  face  as  big  as  a  fist.  She  was  nothing  that  the 
vanity  of  her  parents  would  have  wished  her  to 
be.  After  a  pianoforte  fiasco  made  when  she  was 
five  years  of  age  at  a  concert  given  in  her  mother's 
drawing-room,  she  was  relegated  to  domesticity. 
Only  for  a  minute  in  the  morning  used  she  to  go 
to  her  mother,  who  made  her  kiss  her  under  the 
chin,  that  she  might  not  disturb  her  rouge.  When 
the  Revolution  came,  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil, 
thanks  to  the  protection  of  the  Count  d'Artois, 
was  a  collector  of  taxes.  Madame  de  Varandeuil 
was  travelling  in  Italy,  whither  she  had  had  herself 
sent  under  the  pretense  that  her  health  required 
it,  abandoning  the  charge  of  her  daughter  and  of 
a  very  young  son  to  her  husband. 

The  heavy  cares  of  the  time,  the  threats 
muttered  against  money  and  the  families  that  had 
the  control  of  money  --  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil 
had  a  brother  who  was  a  Farmer-General  -  -  left 
this  very  egotistical  and  unfeeling  father  little 
of  the  necessary  leisure  or  heart  for  looking  after 
his  children.  Then,  embarrassment  began  to  show 
itself  in  his  home.  He  left  the  Rue  Royale  and 
came  to  live  at  the  Hotel  du  Petit-Charolais, 
which  belonged  to  his  mother  who  was  still  alive, 
and  who  allowed  him  to  take  up  his  abode  there. 
Events  progressed;  the  beginning  of  the  years  of 
the  guillotine  had  been  reached,  when  one  evening 
he  was  walking  behind  a  pedlar  crying  the  news- 
paper called  "Stop  Thief!"  The  pedlar,  accord- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ing  to  the  custom  of  the  time,  was  announcing 
the  contents  of  the  edition,  and  Monsieur  de 
Varandeuil  heard  his  own  name  mingled  with 
the  coarsest  expressions.  He  bought  the  paper 
and  read  in  it  a  revolutionary  denunciation. 

Some  time  afterwards  his  brother  was  arrested 
and  shut  up  with  the  other  Farmers-General  at 
the  Hotel  Talaru.  His  mother,  in  a  fit  of  terror, 
had  foolishly  sold  the  Hotel  du  Petit-Charolais 
in  which  he  lodged  for  the  worth  of  the  mirrors, 
and  being  paid  in  assignats  she  had  died  of  des- 
pair on  seeing  the  increasing  decline  in  the  value 
of  the  paper  currency.  Fortunately,  Monsieur 
de  Varandeuil  obtained  from  the  purchasers,  who 
were  unable  to  let,  permission  to  live  in  the  rooms 
which  had  formerly  served  for  the  stablemen. 
He  took  refuge  here  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
discarded  his  name,  posted  on  the  door,  as  he  had 
been  ordered,  his  patronymic  "Roulot,"  beneath 
which  he  buried  the  "de  Varandeuil"  and  the 
former  courtier  of  the  Count  d'Artois.  There 
he  lived  solitary,  effaced,  entombed,  hiding  his 
head,  never  going  out,  crouching  in  his  den,  with 
no  servant,  waited  upon  by  his  daughter  and 
allowing  her  to  do  everything. 

They  lived  through  the  Terror  in  a  state  of 
expectancy,  trepidation  and  continual  anticipa- 
tion of  death.  Every  evening  the  little  girl  went 
to  a  little  grated  dormer  window  to  listen  to  the 
condemnations  of  the  day,  the  "List  of  winners 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

in  the  Lottery  of  Saint  Guillotine."  At  every 
knock,  she  would  go  to  open  the  door  with  the 
thought  that  they  were  about  to  seize  her  father 
in  order  to  lead  him  to  the  Place  de  la  Revolu- 
tion whither  her  uncle  had  been  led  already. 
The  time  came  when  money,  —  money  which 
was  so  scarce,  —  could  no  longer  procure  bread, 
when  it  had  to  be  carried  off  almost  by  force  from 
the  baker's  door,  when  it  was  necessary  to  win 
it  by  spending  hours  in  the  cold,  keen  nights 
amid  the  press  and  crush  of  crowds,  by  making  one 
of  a  file  from  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Her 
father  did  not  care  to  risk  himself  in  the  throng 
of  people.  He  was  afraid  of  being  recognized, 
of  compromising  himself  by  some  of  those  out- 
bursts such  as  the  impetuosity  of  his  temper 
would  have  caused  him  to  utter  in  any  place, 
no  matter  where.  Moreover,  he  shrank  from  the 
weariness  and  hardness  of  the  labor.  The  little 
boy  was  as  yet  too  small;  he  would  have  been 
trampled  upon;  and  accordingly  the  task  of  ob- 
taining bread  every  day,  for  the  three  months, 
fell  to  the  girl. 

She  did  obtain  it.  With  her  little,  thin  body 
lost  in  a  large,  knitted  waistcoat  belonging  to 
her  father,  a  cotton  cap  pulled  down  over  her  eyes, 
and  her  limbs  hugged  together  in  order  to  retain 
a  remnant  of  warmth,  she  would  wait  shivering, 
with  eyes  blue  with  cold,  amid  hustlings  and 
pushings  until  the  baker  of  the  Rue  des  Francs- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Bourgeois  placed  in  her  hands  a  loaf  which  her 
benumbed  fingers  could  scarcely  grasp.  At  last 
this  poor  little  girl,  who  came  back  every  day  with 
her  face  suffering  and  her  trembling  emaciation, 
moved  the  baker  to  pity.  With  the  kindness  of 
heart  which  is  to  be  found  among  the  people, 
she  sent  her  man  to  the  little  girl  as  soon  as  she 
appeared  in  the  long  file,  with  the  bread  which 
she  came  to  obtain.  But  one  day,  as  the  little 
girl  was  about  to  take  it,  a  woman,  jealous  at  the 
favor  and  preference  shown  to  the  child,  gave 
her  a  kick  with  her  wooden  shoe  which  kept  her 
in  bed  for  nearly  a  month.  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  bore  the  mark  of  it  all  her  life.  During 
this  month  the  family  would  have  died  of  hunger, 
but  for  a  store  of  rice  which  it  had  happily  occurred 
to  one  of  their  acquaintances,  the  Countess 
d'Auteuil,  to  lay  in,  and  which  she  was  willing 
to  share  with  the  father  and  the  two  children. 
Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  thus  escaped  the  Rev- 
olutionary Tribunal  through  the  obscurity  of  a 
buried  life.  His  escape  was  assisted  by  the 
accounts  of  his  post,  which  he  was  to  render, 
and  which  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  post- 
poned and  put  off  from  month  to  month.  More- 
over, he  averted  suspicion  by  his  personal  ani- 
mosities against  certain  great  personages  of  the 
court,  hatreds  which  many  servants  of  princes 
had  imbibed  from  the  King's  brothers  against 
the  Queen.  Every  time  that  he  had  had  occa- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

sion  to  speak  of  this  unhappy  woman,  he  had 
used  violent,  bitter,  and  abusive  language  in  so 
impassioned  and  sincere  a  tone  that  it  had  almost 
made  him  appear  an  enemy  to  royalty;  so  that 
those  to  whom  he  was  only  the  citizen  Roulot 
looked  upon  him  as  a  patriot,  and  those  who 
knew  him  under  his  former  name  almost  ex- 
cused him  for  having  been  what  he  had  been  - 
a  noble,  the  friend  of  a  prince  of  the  blood,  and  a 
placeman. 

The  Republic  had  reached  the  patriotic  suppers, 
those  meals  of  an  entire  street  in  the  street,  whereof 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil,  in  the  mingled  terrors 
of  her  confused  recollections,  could  see  the  tables 
of  the  Rue  Pavee  standing  in  the  stream  of  Sep- 
tember blood  issuing  from  La  Force!  It  was  at 
one  of  these  suppers  that  Monsieur  de  Varan- 
deuil devised  a  scheme  which  finally  assured  him 
of  the  safety  of  his  life.  He  told  two  of  his  table 
companions,  warm  patriots,  one  of  whom  was 
intimate  with  Chaumette,  that  he  found  himself 
in  great  perplexity,  that  his  daughter  had  been 
only  privately  baptized,  that  she  lacked  civil 
status,  and  that  he  would  be  very  glad  if  Chau- 
mette would  have  her  entered  upon  the  registers 
of  the  municipality  and  honor  her  with  a  name 
chosen  by  himself  from  the  republican  calendar 
of  Greece  or  Rome.  Chaumette  soon  made  an 
appointment  for  this  father  who  was  so  "well 
up  to  his  part,"  as  people  said  then.  Forthwith 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  was  shown  into  a 
room  where  she  found  two  matrons  who  were  in- 
structed to  satisfy  themselves  as  to  her  sex,  and 
to  whom  she  showed  her  bosom.  She  was  then 
brought  back  into  the  great  Hall  of  Declarations, 
and  there,  after  a  metaphorical  address,  Chaumette 
baptized  her  "Sempronia;"  a  name  which  custom 
was  to  make  her  own  and  which  she  never  laid 
aside. 

Screened  and  reassured  to  some  extent  by  this, 
the  family  passed  through  the  terrible  days  which 
preceded  the  fall  of  Robespierre.  At  last  came 
the  Qth  of  Thermidor  and  deliverance.  But 
poverty  remained  great  and  pressing  in  the  home. 
They  had  lived  through  the  hard  times  of  the 
Revolution,  and  they  were  about  to  live  through 
the  unhappy  time  of  the  Directory  with  nothing 
but  a  very  unexpected  resource,  a  godsend  in 
money  which  came  to  them  from  Folly.  The  two 
children  and  the  father  could  scarcely  have  sub- 
sisted but  for  the  income  from  four  shares  in  the 
Vaudeville,  an  investment  which  Monsieur  de 
Varandeuil  had  been  inspired  to  make  in  1791, 
and  which  turned  out  the  best  of  transactions  for 
those  years  of  death,  when  people  needed  to  for- 
get death  every  evening,  for  those  final  days 
when  every  one  was  fain  to  laugh  his  last  laugh  at 
the  last  song.  Soon  these  shares,  coupled  with 
the  recovery  of  a  few  debts,  gave  the  family  some- 
thing more  than  bread.  They  then  left  the  Hotel 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

du  Petit-Charolais,  and  took  a  small  lodging  in 
the  Rue  du  Chaume,  in  the  Marais. 

For  the  rest,  there  was  no  change  in  the  habits 
of  the  home.  The  daughter  continued  to  wait 
upon  her  father  and  her  brother.  Monsieur  de 
Varandeuil  had  gradually  become  accustomed  to 
see  nothing  more  in  her  than  was  denoted  by  her 
costume  and  by  the  work  which  she  performed. 
The  father's  eyes  were  no  longer  ready  to  recog- 
nize a  daughter  through  the  dress  and  the  low 
occupations  of  this  servant.  She  was  no  longer 
one  of  his  own  blood,  one  who  had  the  honor  to 
belong  to  him:  she  was  a  servant  whom  he  had 
there,  under  his  thumb;  and  his  egotism  became 
so  strengthened  in  this  harshness  and  this  mode 
of  thought,  he  found  so  much  convenience  in  this 
filial  affection  and  respectful  service  which  cost 
nothing,  that  he  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world 
to  surrender  it  later  on,  when  a  little  more  money 
reverted  to  the  household;  battles  were  necessary 
to  bring  him  to  hire  a  maid,  who  should  replace 
his  daughter  and  spare  the  young  girl  the  more 
humiliating  labors  of  domesticity. 

There  was  no  news  of  Madame  de  Varandeuil, 
who  had  refused  to  rejoin  her  husband  at  Paris 
during  the  first  years  of  the  Revolution;  but 
soon  it  was  reported  that  she  had  married  again 
in  Germany,  producing  the  death-certificate  of 
her  brother-in-law,  who  had  been  guillotined,  and 
whose  first  name  had  been  changed,  as  that  of 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

her  husband.  Thus,  the  young  girl  grew  up  for- 
saken, uncaressed,  with  no  mother  but  a  woman 
who  was  dead  to  all  her  relations,  and  whom  her 
father  taught  her  to  despise.  Her  childhood  had 
been  spent  in  never-ceasing  anxiety,  in  the  priva- 
tions which  wear  away  life,  in  the  fatigue  of  toil 
which  exhausted  her  feeble,  childish  strength,  in 
a  looking  for  death  which  at  last  became  an  im- 
patience to  die.  There  had  been  moments  when 
the  temptation  had  come  to  this  girl  of  thirteen 
to  act  like  some  woman  of  that  time,  to  open  the 
door  of  the  house  and  cry:  "God  save  the  King!" 
into  the  street,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  it  all. 

Her  youth  followed  upon  her  childhood  with 
less  tragic  cares.  She  had  to  endure  her  father's 
violence  of  temper,  his  exactingness,  his  harshness, 
his  storms  which  hitherto  had  been  somewhat 
subdued  and  restrained  by  the  great  tempest  of 
the  time.  She  was  still  subjected  to  the  fatigues 
and  humiliations  of  a  servant.  She  continued  to 
be  under  restraint  and  kept  down,  isolated  in  the 
society  of  her  father,  driven  from  his  arms,  and 
from  his  kisses,  her  heart  big  and  sorrowful  with 
the  desire  to  love  and  with  having  nothing  to  love. 
She  began  to  suffer  from  that  chilling  void  which 
is  formed  around  a  woman  by  youth  that  cannot 
attract  or  seduce,  youth  that  is  stripped  of  beauty, 
and  of  sympathetic  grace.  She  could  see  that  she 
inspired  a  sort  of  commiseration  with  her  large 
nose,  her  yellow  complexion,  her  withered  lean- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ness.  She  felt  that  she  was  ugly,  and  with  a  piti- 
ful ugliness  in  her  wretched  attire,  —  her  sad- 
colored  woollen  dresses,  the  material  of  which 
her  father  never  paid  for  without  tokens  of  ill- 
humor;  for  it  was  not  until  she  was  thirty-five 
years  old,  that  she  could  obtain  from  him  a  small 
dress  allowance. 

What  sadness,  what  bitterness,  what  loneliness 
did  she  experience  in  her  life,  with  this  sour, 
morose  old  man  who  was  ever  grumbling  and 
growling  in  their  lodging,  who  had  no  amiability 
except  in  society,  and  who  left  her  every  evening 
to  visit  at  the  houses  that  had  been  re-opened 
under  the  Directory  and  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Empire!  Rarely,  and  at  wide  intervals,  did  he 
take  her  out,  and  when  he  did  so  it  was  always 
to  take  her  to  the  everlasting  Vaudeville  where 
he  had  seats.  His  daughter,  however,  used  to 
be  in  terror  of  these  outings.  She  trembled,  the 
whole  time  that  she  was  with  him ;  she  was  fearful 
of  the  violence  of  his  temper,  of  the  old-fashioned 
style  which  still  belonged  to  his  passions,  of  the 
readiness  with  which  he  would  lift  his  stick  upon 
the  insolence  of  the  vulgar.  On  almost  every 
occasion  there  were  scenes  with  the  ticket  col- 
lector, wordy  wars  with  the  people  in  the  pit, 
threatenings  with  the  fist  which  she  would  ter- 
minate by  letting  down  the  grating  of  the  box. 
The  same  demeanor  would  be  continued  in  the 
street,  even  in  the  cab  with  the  cabman,  who, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

unwilling  to  drive  for  the  fare  offered  by  Mon- 
sieur de  Varandeuil,  would  let  him  wait  an  hour 
or  two  hours  without  proceeding,  and  sometimes 
would  impatiently  take  out  his  horse  and  leave 
him  in  the  vehicle  with  his  daughter,  the  latter 
vainly  beseeching  him  to  yield  and  pay. 

Considering  that  these  pleasures  ought  to  be 
sufficient  for  Sempronia,  and  being  moreover 
jealous  of  having  her  all  to  himself,  and  constantly 
under  his  thumb,  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  did 
not  allow  her  to  become  intimate  with  any  one. 
He  did  not  take  her  into  society,  he  did  not  bring 
her  except  on  days  of  official  receptions  and  family 
gatherings  to  see  their  relations  who  had  returned 
from  exile.  He  kept  her  closely  at  home;  it  was 
not  until  she  was  nearly  forty  years  of  age  that 
he  considered  her  sufficiently  grown  up  to  have 
permission  to  go  out  alone.  Thus  the  young 
woman  had  no  friendship,  no  relationship  to  sus- 
tain her;  she  had  no  longer  even  her  young  brother, 
who  had  left  for  the  United  States,  and  had 
entered  the  American  navy. 

Marriage  was  forbidden  her  by  her  father,  who 
refused  to  allow  that  she  could  so  much  as  enter- 
tain the  idea  of  getting  married  and  forsaking  him; 
every  match  that  might  have  presented  itself  was 
combated  and  repulsed  by  him  in  advance,  so 
that  he  did  not  even  leave  his  daughter  the  courage 
to  speak  to  him  did  an  opportunity  ever  offer 
itself  to  her. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Meanwhile  our  victories  were  accomplishing  a 
clearance  in  Italy.  The  masterpieces  of  Rome, 
Florence,  Venice  were  thronging  to  Paris.  Italian 
art  was  throwing  everything  into  the  shade.  Col- 
lectors had  ceased  to  pride  themselves  on  anything 
but  pictures  of  the  Italian  School.  It  appeared 
to  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  that  an  opportunity  of 
making  a  fortune  was  afforded  by  this  movement 
in  matters  of  taste.  He  too  had  been  taken  with 
that  artistic  dilettantism  which  was  one  of  the 
refined  crazes  of  the  nobility  before  the  Revolu- 
tion. He  had  lived  in  the  society  of  artists,  and 
virtuosos;  he  was  fond  of  pictures.  He  thought 
of  collecting  a  gallery  of  Italian  works  and  then 
selling  it.  Paris  was  still  filled  with  the  sales  and 
dispersals  of  objects  of  art  caused  by  the  Reign 
of  Terror.  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  began  to 
haunt  the  pavement  —  which  was  then  the  market 
for  great  pictures  —  and  every  step  brought  a 
discovery;  every  day  he  purchased  something. 
Soon  there  was  not  room  enough  for  the  furni- 
ture in  the  little  apartment,  which  was  encumbered 
with  old  black  pictures,  so  large,  for  the  most 
part,  that  they  could  not  be  attached  to  the  walls 
with  their  frames.  Each  was  baptized  a  Raphael, 
or  a  Vinci,  or  an  Andrea  del  Sarto;  they  were  all 
masterpieces,  and  the  father  would  frequently 
keep  his  daughter  in  front  of  them  for  hours, 
taxing  her  with  his  admiration,  and  wearying  her 
with  his  ecstasy.  He  would  rise  from  epithet 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

to  epithet,  would  grow  intoxicated  and  rave, 
would  finally  believe  that  he  was  dealing  with  an 
imaginary  purchaser,  would  dispute  about  the 
price  of  a  masterpiece,  and  cry: 

"A  hundred  thousand  livres,  my  Rosso!  yes, 
sir,  a  hundred  thousand  livres!'* 

His  daughter,  alarmed  by  the  amount  of  money 
taken  from  the  housekeeping  by  these  big,  ugly 
things,  covered  with  great,  frightful,  perfectly 
naked  men,  tried  to  remonstrate  and  sought  to 
stay  such  waste,  but  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil 
would  fall  into  a  passion,  display  the  indignation 
of  a  man  ashamed  to  find  so  little  taste  in  one  of 
his  own  blood,  and  tell  her  that  this  would  make 
his  fortune  later  on,  and  that  she  would  see  whether 
or  not  he  was  a  fool.  At  last  she  induced  him  to 
sell.  The  sale  took  place;  it  was  a  disaster,  and 
one  of  the  greatest  disillusions  ever  witnessed  by 
the  glazed  hall  of  the  Hotel  Bullion. 

Wounded  to  the  quick,  furious  at  this  check 
which  not  only  involved  a  loss  of  money,  and  a 
rent  in  his  little  fortune,  but  also  a  defeat  as  a 
connoisseur,  a  slap  dealt  at  his  knowledge  on  the 
cheeks  of  his  Raphaels,  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  de- 
clared to  his  daughter  that  henceforth  they  would 
be  too  poor  to  remain  in  Paris,  and  that  they  must 
go  and  live  in  the  country.  Reared  and  cradled 
in  an  age  which  disposed  women  but  little  to  love 
of  the  country,  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  tried 
in  vain  to  combat  her  father's  resolution;  she  was 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

obliged  to  follow  him  whither  he  wished  to  go, 
and,  by  leaving  Paris,  to  lose  the  society  and 
friendship  of  two  young  relatives  to  whom,  in 
interviews  that  were  too  infrequent,  she  had  half 
unbosomed  herself,  and  whose  hearts  she  had  felt 
come  out  to  herself  as  to  an  elder  sister. 

At  L' Isle- Adam  Monsieur  Varandeuil  rented 
a  small  house.  Here  he  found  himself  close  to 
old  memories  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  former  petty 
court,  in  the  neighborhood  of  two  or  three  man- 
sions which  were  beginning  to  be  peopled  again, 
and  the  owners  of  which  he  knew.  And  then, 
here  on  the  ground  of  the  Contis,  there  had  come 
to  be  settled,  since  the  Revolution,  a  little  society 
of  substantial  citizens  and  rich-grown  tradesmen. 
The  name  of  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  sounded 
big  in  the  ears  of  all  these  worthy  individuals. 
They  bowed  low  to  him,  they  disputed  for  the 
honor  of  entertaining  him,  they  listened  respect- 
fully, and  almost  religiously,  to  the  stories  that 
he  told  of  the  old  society.  And  flattered,  loved 
and  honored  as  a  remnant  of  Versailles,  he  had 
the  position  and  consideration  of  a  lord  among 
these  people.  When  he  dined  at  the  house  of 
Madame  Mutel,  a  retired  baker,  who  had  an 
income  of  forty  thousand  livres  a  year,  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  would  rise  from  table  in  her 
silk  dress  to  go  and  fry  the  salsify  herself.  Mon- 
sieur de  Varandeuil  did  not  like  it  unless  it  was 
done  in  his  own  way. 

C22H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

But  it  was  not  these  advantages  which  had 
especially  fixed  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil's  retreat 
at  L' Isle- Adam;  it  was  a  plan.  He  came  there 
in  quest  of  leisure  for  a  great  work.  What  he 
had  been  unable  to  do  for  the  honor  and  glory  of 
Italian  art  by  means  of  his  collections,  he  wished 
to  accomplish  by  means  of  history.  He  had 
learned  a  little  Italian  from  his  wife;  he  took  it 
into  his  head  to  give  Vasari's  "Lives  of  the 
Painters"  to  the  French  public,  to  translate  it 
with  the  assistance  of  his  daughter  who,  when 
quite  a  child,  had  been  able  to  speak  Italian  with 
her  mother's  maid  and  who  still  remembered  a 
few  words.  He  buried  the  young  woman  in  Vasari, 
shut  up  her  time  and  thought  in  grammars,  dic- 
tionaries, commentators,  and  the  scholiasts  of 
Italian  art,  kept  her  stooping  over  the  thankless 
task,  over  the  weariness  and  fatigue  of  groping 
out  the  translation  of  words. 

The  whole  book  devolved  upon  her;  when  he 
had  cut  out  her  work  for  her,  he  would  leave  her 
alone  with  the  white  vellum-bound  volumes  and 
set  out  for  a  walk,  or  pay  visits  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, or  go  and  gamble  in  a  mansion,  or  dine  with 
the  citizens  of  his  acquaintance,  to  whom  he 
would  complain  pathetically  of  the  effort  and 
labor  which  the  enormous  enterprise  of  his  transla- 
tion cost  him.  He  would  come  in  again,  listen 
while  the  portion  translated  was  read  to  him, 
offer  his  observations  and  his  criticism,  and  spoil 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

a  sentence  to  insert  a  mistranslation  which  his 
daughter  would  remove  when  he  was  gone;  then 
he  would  resume  his  walk,  or  his  gadding  about, 
like  a  man  who  had  done  a  good  day's  work, 
swaggering  as  he  walked  with  his  hat  under  his 
arm,  wearing  thin  pumps,  enjoying  himself,  the 
sky,  the  trees,  and  Rousseau's  God,  who  is  gentle 
to  nature  and  tender  to  the  plants.  From  time 
to  time  impatience  like  that  of  a  child  or  of  an 
old  man  would  possess  him;  he  would  require  so 
many  pages  for  the  next  day,  and  would  compel 
his  daughter  to  sit  up  during  part  of  the  night. 

Two  or  three  years  were  spent  in  this  work, 
upon  which  finally  Sempronia's  eyes  were  fixed 
without  intermission.  She  lived  buried  in  her 
father's  Vasari,  more  solitary  than  ever,  alienated 
by  lofty,  innate  repugnance  from  the  burgesses 
of  L'IsIe-Adam  with  their  Madame  Angot  manners, 
and  too  poorly  dressed  to  visit  at  the  mansions. 
There  was  no  pleasure,  no  amusement  for  her  that 
was  not  thwarted  and  tormented  by  the  irritat- 
ing singularities  of  her  father.  He  pulled  up  the 
flowers  which  she  planted  secretly  in  the  little 
garden.  He  would  have  nothing  in  it  but  vege- 
tables, and  he  cultivated  them  himself,  setting 
forth  grand  utilitarian  theories  the  while,  argu- 
ments which  might  have  served  the  Convention 
for  the  conversion  of  the  Tuileries  into  a  potato- 
field.  The  only  comfort  she  had  was  a  week  which 
came  at  wide  intervals,  and  during  which  her 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

father  granted  her  permission  to  receive  a  visit 
from  one  of  her  two  friends,  a  week  which  would 
have  been  seven  days  of  Paradise  for  Sempronia 
had  not  her  father  poisoned  its  joys,  its  diver- 
sions and  its  entertainments  with  his  ever  men- 
acing rages,  his  ever  aggressive  humors,  and  his 
difficulties  about  trifles,  —  a  flask  of  Eau-de-Co- 
logne requested  by  Sempronia  for  her  friend's 
room,  a  dish  for  her  dinner,  or  a  place  to  which 
she  wished  to  take  her. 

At  L' Isle- Adam  Monsieur  de  Varandeuil  had 
taken  a  servant  who  had  almost  immediately 
become  his  mistress.  Of  this  connection  was 
born  a  child  whom  the  father,  in  his  cynical  care- 
lessness, had  the  shamelessness  to  have  brought 
up  under  his  daughter's  eyes.  As  years  went  on 
the  maid  had  gained  a  firm  footing  in  the  house. 
She  ended  by  ruling  the  household,  father  and 
daughter.  A  day  came  when  Monsieur  de  Varan- 
deuil wished  to  have  her  sit  at  his  table  and  be 
waited  upon  by  Sempronia.  It  was  too  much. 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  revolted  at  the  out- 
rage, and  drew  herself  up  in  all  the  loftiness  of  her 
indignation.  Secretly,  silently,  in  misfortune,  and 
isolation,  and  the  hardness  of  the  things  and 
people  around  her,  the  young  woman  had  devel- 
oped a  soul  that  was  straight  and  strong;  tears 
had  tempered  instead  of  softened  her.  Beneath 
her  filial  docility  and  humility,  beneath  her  pas- 
sive obedience,  beneath  an  apparent  gentleness, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

she  concealed  a  character  of  iron,  a  man's  will, 
one  of  those  hearts  which  nothing  can  bend  and 
which  never  yield.  At  this  insult  she  proved  her- 
self to  be  her  father's  daughter,  set  forth  her  entire 
life,  flung  the  shame  and  reproach  of  it  in  his 
face  with  a  flood  of  words,  and  ended  by  telling 
him  that  if  the  woman  did  not  leave  the  house 
that  very  evening  she  would  leave  it  herself,  and 
that,  thank  God!  she  would  be  at  no  loss  to 
live  anywhere  with  the  simple  tastes  which  he 
had  given  her. 

The  father,  stupefied  and  astounded  at  this 
revolt,  yielded  and  sent  the  servant  away,  but 
he  kept  up  a  cowardly  spite  against  his  daughter 
for  the  sacrifice  which  she  had  wrung  from  him. 
This  resentment  betrayed  itself  in  harsh  speeches, 
in  aggressive  words,  in  ironical  thanks,  in  smiles 
of  bitterness.  Sempronia  tended  him  better,  more 
gently,  more  patiently,  for  all  his  vengeance.  A 
final  trial  awaited  her  devotion;  the  old  man  was 
stricken  writh  an  attack  of  apoplexy  which  left 
him  with  the  whole  of  one  side  of  his  body  stiff 
and  dead,  with  a  lame  leg,  and  with  a  dormant 
understanding  accompanied  by  the  living  con- 
sciousness of  his  misfortune  and  of  his  dependence 
upon  his  daughter.  Then,  all  that  was  bad  at 
bottom  within  him  was  exasperated  and  un- 
chained. He  displayed  ferocities  of  egotism. 
Under  the  torment  of  his  suffering  and  his  weak- 
ness, he  became  a  sort  of  wicked  madman. 

I  26! 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  devoted  her  days 
and  nights  to  the  sick  man  who  seemed  to  bear 
her  ill-will  for  her  attentions,  to  be  humiliated 
by  her  care  as  by  her  generosity  and  forgiveness, 
to  suffer  inwardly  at  seeing  this  indefatigable 
and  watchful  figure  of  Duty  always  at  his  side. 
Yet  what  a  life  was  hers !  She  had  to  combat 
the  incurable  weariness  of  the  patient,  to  con- 
stantly keep  him  company,  to  take  him  out,  to 
sustain  him  during  the  entire  day.  She  had  to 
play  cards  with  him  when  he  was  at  home,  and 
to  see  that  he  neither  lost  nor  won  too  much. 
She  also  had  to  contest  his  inclinations  and  his 
greedy  longings,  to  take  the  dishes  from  him,  and 
for  every  thing  that  he  wanted,  to  undergo  com- 
plainings, reproaches,  abuse,  tears,  furious  des- 
pairs, rages,  like  those  of  a  passionate  child,  and 
such  as  are  displayed  by  the  old  and  powerless. 
And  this  lasted  ten  years!  —  ten  years  during 
which  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  had  no  other 
recreation  or  relief  than  to  lavish  the  tenderness 
and  warmth  of  a  maternal  affection  upon  one  of 
her  two  young  friends  who  had  lately  been  married, 
her  "chick"  as  she  called  her.  Mademoiselle's 
happiness  consisted  in  going  every  fortnight  to 
pass  a  short  time  in  this  happy  household.  She 
would  kiss  the  pretty  infant  in  its  cradle,  and  al- 
ready in  the  arms  of  sleep;  she  would  dine  at 
racing  speed;  at  dessert  she  would  send  for  a  car- 
riage, and  hurry  away  with  the  haste  of  a  school- 

1*71 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

boy  who  is  behind  his  time.  However,  during 
the  last  years  of  her  father's  life  she  ceased  to 
have  permission  to  dine:  the  old  man  would  no 
longer  permit  so  long  an  absence,  and  kept  her 
almost  continually  beside  him,  telling  her  re- 
peatedly that  he  was  well  aware  that  it  was  not 
amusing  to  look  after  an  infirm  old  creature  such 
as  he  was,  but  that  she  would  soon  be  rid  of  him. 
He  died  in  1818,  and  the  only  words  that  he  could 
find  before  dying  in  which  to  bid  farewell  to  her 
who  had  been  his  daughter  for  almost  forty  years 
were  these: 

"Ah,  I  well  know  that  you  have  never  loved 
me!" 

Two  years  before  her  father's  death,  Sempronia's 
brother  had  returned  from  America.  He  brought 
back  a  colored  woman  who  had  nursed  him  and 
saved  him  from  the  yellow  fever,  and  two  daugh- 
ters who  were  already  grown  up,  whom  he  had  had 
by  this  woman  before  marrying  her.  Notwith- 
standing that  she  had  the  old-fashioned  ideas 
about  black  people,  and  although  she  looked  upon 
this  uninstructed  colored  woman,  with  her  negro 
speech,  her  harsh  laugh,  and  her  linen-greasing 
skin,  as  absolutely  a  female  ape,  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  had  striven  against  her  father's  ob- 
stinate horror  of  receiving  his  daughter-in-law; 
and  it  was  she  who  had  induced  him,  in  the  last 
days  of  his  life,  to  allow  her  brother  to  present 
his  wife  to  him.  Her  father  being  dead,  it  seemed 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

to  her  that  this  household  was  all  that  remained 
to  her  of  the  family. 

Monsieur  de  Varandeuil,  to  whom  on  the  re- 
turn of  the  Bourbons  the  Count  d'Artois  had 
caused  to  be  paid  the  arrears  of  his  office,  had  left 
an  income  of  nearly  ten  thousand  francs  to  his 
children.  Before  inheriting  this,  the  brother  had 
nothing  but  a  pension  of  fifteen  hundred  francs 
from  the  United  States.  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil calculated  that  five  or  six  thousand  francs  a 
year  would  not  be  sufficient  for  the  comfort  of 
this  household  which  comprised  two  children,  and 
it  immediately  occurred  to  her  to  add  her  own 
share  in  the  inheritance.  She  proposed  this  con- 
tribution in  the  most  natural  and  simple  way  in 
the  world.  Her  brother  accepted  it,  and  she  came 
to  live  with  him  in  a  pretty  little  dwelling  at  the 
top  of  the  Rue  de  Clichy,  on  the  fourth  floor  of 
one  of  the  first  houses  built  on  that  soil,  which  was 
still  almost  a  waste,  where  the  country  air  passed 
gaily  through  the  framework  of  the  houses  under 
construction.  Here  she  continued  her  modest 
life,  her  humble  toilets,  her  frugal  habits,  con- 
tent with  the  worst  room,  and  not  spending  on 
herself  more  than  from  eighteen  hundred  to  two 
thousand  francs  a  year. 

But  soon  a  secret  and  slowly  hatched  jealousy 
began  to  show  itself  in  the  mulatto  woman.  She 
took  umbrage  at  the  friendship  between  the 
brother  and  sister,  which  seemed  to  withdraw 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

her  husband  from  her  arms.  She  was  hurt  by 
the  communion  effected  between  them  by  speech, 
mind  and  recollection;  she  was  hurt  by  the  talks 
in  which  she  could  take  no  part,  and  by  what  she 
heard  in  their  voices  without  understanding  it. 
The  consciousness  of  her  own  inferiority  roused 
in  her  heart  the  wrathfulness  and  fiery  hatred 
which  burn  in  the  tropics.  She  employed  her 
children  for  her  revenge,  and  impelled  and  urged 
and  incited  them  against  her  sister-in-law.  She 
encouraged  them  to  laugh  at  her,  to  make  fun  of 
her.  She  applauded  that  evil  littleness  of  under- 
standing which  is  characteristic  of  children,  in 
whom  observation  begins  with  naughtiness.  Once 
let  loose,  she  allowed  them  to  laugh  at  all  their 
aunt's  absurdities,  her  physique,  her  nose,  her 
clothes,  whose  poverty,  however,  was  caused  by 
their  own  elegance. 

Thus  directed  and  supported,  the  children  soon 
arrived  at  insolence.  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil 
was  as  quick  as  she  was  kind.  With  her,  hand  as 
well  as  heart  belonged  to  the  first  impulse.  More- 
over, she  thought  with  her  time  respecting  the 
mode  of  bringing  up  children.  She  tolerated  two 
or  three  impertinences  without  saying  anything, 
but  at  the  fourth  she  seized  the  laugher,  turned 
up  her  petticoats,  and  in  spite  of  her  twelve  years 
gave  her  the  soundest  whipping  that  she  had  ever 
had.  The  mulatto  uttered  loud  shrieks,  and  told 
her  sister-in-law  that  she  had  always  detested 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

her  children,  and  that  she  wanted  to  kill  them. 
The  brother  interposed  between  the  two  women 
and  succeeded  in  patching  up  a  reconciliation. 
But  fresh  scenes  occurred  in  which  the  two  little 
girls,  enraged  against  the  woman  who  had  made 
their  mother  weep,  tortured  their  aunt  with  the 
devices  of  naughty  children  combined  with  the 
cruelties  of  little  savages. 

After  several  superficial  reconciliations,  it  had 
become  necessary  to  separate.  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  resolved  to  leave  her  brother,  who, 
as  she  could  see,  was  most  unhappy  in  the  daily 
trial  to  his  dearest  affections.  She  left  him  to 
his  wife  and  children.  This  separation  was  one 
of  the  great  heart-breakings  of  her  life.  She  who 
had  been  so  strong  against  emotion,  who  had  been 
so  self-contained,  who  had  apparently  taken  a 
pride  in  suffering,  was  nearly  giving  way  when 
obliged  to  leave  the  dwelling  where,  in  her  own 
little  corner,  she  had  had  a  short  dream  of  hap- 
piness beside  the  happiness  of  the  rest;  and  her 
last  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  go  far  away,  so  as  to  be  still  within 
reach  of  her  brother,  to  nurse  him  if  he  were  sick, 
to  see  him  and  to  meet  him.  But  a  void  remained 
in  her  heart  and  life.  She  had  begun  to  see  the 
members  of  her  family  after  her  father's  death: 
she  drew  closer  to  them,  allowing  those  relatives 
whom  the  Restoration  had  again  placed  in  high 
and  powerful  positions  to  return  to  her,  and  going 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

herself  to  those  whom  the  new  authority  left  in- 
significant and  poor.  But  above  all  she  returned 
to  her  dear  "chick,"  and  to  another  little  cousin 
who  was  also  married  and  had  become  the 
"chick's"  sister-in-law.  Then  her  existence  and 
her  external  relations  were  ordered  in  a  singular 
fashion.  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  never  went 
into  society,  to  an  evening  party  or  to  the  play. 
It  required  the  brilliant  success  of  Mademoiselle 
Rachel  to  induce  her  to  set  foot  in  a  theatre,  and 
she  ventured  into  one  only  twice.  She  never 
accepted  an  invitation  to  a  large  dinner  party. 
But  there  were  two  or  three  houses  to  which,  as 
to  that  of  her  "chick,"  she  would  invite  herself 
unexpectedly  when  no  one  else  was  there. 

"Bichette,"  she  used  to  say  without  ceremony, 
"you  and  your  husband  are  doing  nothing  this 
evening?  I  will  stay  and  taste  your  stew." 

Regularly  at  eight  o'clock  she  rose,  and  when  the 
husband  took  his  hat  in  order  to  see  her  home  she 
would  make  him  drop  it  with  a: 

"Nonsense!  my  dear;  an  old  stager  like  me! 
why,  it  is  I  who  frighten  the  men  in  the  street." 

And  then  they  would  be  ten  days  or  a  fortnight 
without  seeing  her.  But  did  any  misfortune  come, 
the  news  of  a  death,  or  sadness  in  the  house,  or 
did  a  child  fall  ill,  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil 
always  heard  of  it  in  a  minute,  no  one  knew  how. 
She  would  arrive  in  spite  of  the  weather,  or  the 
hour  or  anything  else,  give  her  own  loud  ring  — 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

it  had  finally  become  known  as  "cousin's  ring" 
-  and,  instantly  laying  aside  her  umbrella,  which 
never  left  her,  taking  off  her  clogs  and  throwing 
her  hat  upon  a  chair,  be  quite  at  the  service  of 
those  who  had  need  of  her.  She  listened,  she 
spoke,  she  inspired  courage  with  a  sort  of  martial 
tone,  in  language  energetic  after  the  manner  of 
military  consolations,  and  as  warm  as  a  cordial. 
If  it  was  a  little  one  who  was  not  well  she  would 
come  straight  to  its  bed,  laugh  at  the  no  longer 
frightened  child,  hustle  the  father  and  mother, 
hurry  to  and  fro,  give  orders,  assume  the  manage- 
ment of  everything,  handle  the  leeches,  arrange 
the  plasters,  and  bring  back  hope,  mirth,  and 
health  at  a  gallop.  Among  all  her  relatives,  the 
old  maid  would  appear  in  this  providential  and 
sudden  manner  in  days  of  pain,  weariness  and  grief. 
She  was  never  seen  except  when  there  was  need  of 
her  hands  to  cure,  or  of  her  devotion  to  comfort. 
She  was  an  impersonal  woman,  so  to  speak, 
from  sheer  goodness  of  heart,  a  woman  who  did 
not  belong  to  herself  at  all.  God  seemed  to  have 
made  her  in  order  to  give  her  to  others.  The  ever- 
lasting black  dress  which  she  persisted  in  wearing, 
the  worn  and  twice-dyed  shawl,  the  ridiculous 
hat  and  the  poorness  of  her  whole  attire,  were  for 
her  the  means  which  enabled  her,  with  her  slender 
fortune,  to  be  rich  in  doing  good,  to  be  a  dispenser 
of  charities,  to  have  her  pocket  always  open  to 
give  the  poor,  not  money,  for  she  was  afraid  of  the 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

public-house,  but  a  quartern  loaf  which  she  would 
purchase  for  them  at  the  baker's.  And  then  with 
this  poverty  she  indulged  further  in  what  was  her 
greatest  luxury:  the  joy  of  her  friends'  children 
when  she  loaded  them  with  Christmas  boxes, 
presents,  surprises  and  pleasures.  Was  there  one, 
for  instance,  whose  mother,  being  away  from  Paris, 
had  left  him  at  the  boarding  school  on  a  fine 
Sunday  in  summer,  and  who,  young  urchin  that 
he  was,  had  for  spite  got  himself  kept  in?  He 
would  be  quite  astonished  to  see  cousin  marching 
into  the  court-yard  at  the  stroke  of  nine,  and  in 
such  a  hurry  as  to  be  still  fastening  the  last  hook 
in  her  dress.  And  what  affliction  on  seeing  her! 

"Cousin,"  he  would  say  piteously,  in  such  a  pas- 
sion as  makes  one  feel  inclined  to  simultaneously 
weep  and  to  kill  one's  pedagogue,  "  I  am  kept  in." 

"Kept  in?  Ah!  very  likely,  kept  in!  And  you 
think  that  I  am  going  to  put  myself  out  like  this 
-  does  this  schoolmaster  of  yours  fancy  he'll 
make  a  fool  of  me?  Where  is  the  old  bear  that  I 
may  speak  to  him?  Meanwhile  do  you  go  and 
dress  yourself,  and  be  quick." 

And  while  the  child  was  still  afraid  to  hope  that 
a  lady  so  badly  dressed  could  have  the  power  to 
cancel  a  detention,  he  would  feel  himself  seized 
by  the  arms;  it  was  his  cousin  carrying  him  off, 
tossing  him  perfectly  stunned  and  amazed  with 
joy  into  a  cab,  and  taking  him  away  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne.  She  would  have  him  ride  on  a  donkey 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  whole  day,  herself  urging  on  the  animal  with 
a  broken  bough,  and  crying:  "Gee!"  Then, 
after  a  good  dinner  at  Borne's  she  would  bring  him 
back  again,  and,  kissing  him  at  the  entrance  to  the 
school,  put  a  large  crown-piece  into  his  hand. 

Queer  old  maid !  The  trials  of  her  whole  exist- 
ence, the  pain  of  living,  the  never-ending  suffer- 
ings of  her  body,  one  long  physical  and  moral 
torture  had  detached  her,  as  it  were,  and  set  her 
above  life.  Her  education,  what  she  had  seen,  the 
sight  of  the  extremity  of  things,  the  Revolution, 
had  moulded  her  to  contempt  of  human  misery. 
And  this  old  woman,  to  whom  only  breath  was 
left,  had  risen  to  a  serene  philosophy,  to  a  manly, 
lofty,  and  almost  ironical  stoicism.  Sometimes, 
she  would  begin  to  be  incensed  with  a  pain  that 
was  somewhat  too  keen;  then,  in  the  midst  of 
her  complaining,  she  would  abruptly  throw  out 
a  word  of  anger  or  raillery  at  herself,  where  upon 
even  her  face  would  grow  calm.  She  was  cheer- 
ful with  a  natural,  effusive  and  thorough  cheerful- 
ness, the  cheerfulness  of  experienced  devotion, 
like  that  of  an  old  soldier  or  of  an  old  hospital- 
sister.  Exceedingly  good,  there  was  neverthe- 
less something  which  her  goodness  lacked  —  for- 
giveness. Never  had  she  been  able  to  sway  or 
bend  her  temper  so  far  as  this.  A  hurt,  a  bad 
action,  a  trifle  which  touched  her  heart,  wounded 
her  for  ever.  She  did  not  forget.  Time,  death 
even,  failed  to  drown  her  memory. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Of  religion  she  had  none.  Born  at  a  period 
when  women  dispensed  with  it,  she  had  grown 
up  at  a  time  when  there  was  no  longer  a  church. 
The  mass  had  no  existence  when  she  was  a  young 
girl;  nothing  had  habituated  her  to  a  belief  in 
God,  or  made  her  feel  that  she  needed  Him;  while 
to  priests  she  had  always  felt  a  hostile  repugnance 
that  must  have  been  connected  with  some  secret 
family  history  of  which  she  never  spoke.  All 
her  faith,  strength,  and  piety  consisted  in  the 
pride  of  her  conscience;  she  considered  that  it 
was  sufficient  to  be  anxious  about  self-esteem  in 
order  to  act  well  and  never  err.  She  was  com- 
pletely moulded  in  this  singular  fashion  by  the 
two  centuries  in  which  she  had  lived,  compounded 
of  them  both,  steeped  in  the  two  currents  of  the 
old  regime  and  the  Revolution.  After  Louis  XVI, 
who  had  not  mounted  his  horse  on  the  tenth  of 
August,  she  had  lost  esteem  for  kings;  but  she 
detested  the  mob.  She  desired  equality  and  she 
had  a  horror  of  upstarts.  She  was  a  Republican 
and  an  aristocrat.  She  blended  skepticism  with 
prejudice,  the  horror  of  '93,  which  she  had  seen, 
with  the  vague  and  generous  ideas  of  humanity 
in  which  she  had  been  cradled. 

Her  externals  were  all  masculine.  Her  voice 
was  rough,  her  speech  frank,  her  language  that  of 
the  old  dames  of  the  eighteenth  century  set  off 
by  the  accent  of  the  people  —  a  rompish  and 
highly-colored  elocution  of  her  own  which  over- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

looked  the  modesty  of  words  and  was  bold  enough 
to  call  things  plainly  by  their  names. 

Meanwhile  the  years  passed,  carrying  away  the 
Restoration  and  the  monarchy  of  Louis  Philippe. 
One  by  one  she  saw  all  those  whom  she  had  loved 
depart,  and  all  her  relations  take  the  road  to  the 
cemetery.  Solitude  was  falling  around  her,  and 
she  remained  astonished  and  sad  that  she  should 
be  forgotten  by  death,  she  who  would  have  offered 
it  so  little  resistance,  she  who  was  already  quite 
disposed  for  the  grave,  and  was  obliged  to  stoop 
her  heart  to  the  little  children  brought  to  her  by 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  the  friends  whom  she 
had  lost.  Her  brother  was  dead.  Her  dear 
"chick"  was  no  more.  The  "chick's"  sister-in- 
law  alone  was  left  her.  But  hers  was  a  tremu- 
lous existence  and  one  ready  to  take  to  flight. 
Crushed  by  the  death  of  a  child  that  had  come 
after  years  of  waiting,  the  poor  woman  was  dying 
of  consumption.  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil 
shut  herself  up  with  her  from  twelve  o'clock 
until  six  every  day  for  four  years.  She  lived  by 
her  side  all  this  time,  in  the  close  atmosphere  and 
in  the  odor  of  fumigations.  Not  allowing  herself 
to  be  stayed  for  an  hour  by  gout  or  rheumatism, 
she  devoted  her  time  and  her  life  to  the  gentle 
dying  creature,  who  kept  looking  to  heaven  where 
all  dead  children  are.  And  when  at  the  ceme- 
tery Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  had  kissed  the 
dead  woman's  coffin  in  a  last  embrace,  it  seemed 


GERM  INI E    LACERTEUX 

to  her  that  no  one  was  left  about  her,  and  that 
she  was  alone  on  the  earth. 

From  that  day,  yielding  to  the  infirmities  which 
she  had  no  longer  any  reason  for  shaking  off,  she 
had  begun  to  live  the  narrow  and  confined  life 
of  those  old  people  who  wear  out  the  carpet  of 
their  room  in  the  same  spot,  no  longer  going  out, 
no  longer  reading  on  account  of  the  fatigue  to  her 
eyes,  and  most  frequently  sunk  in  her  arm-chair, 
engaged  in  reviewing  and  reviving  the  past.  She 
would  maintain  the  same  position  for  days  with 
open  and  dreamy  eyes,  far  from  herself,  far  from 
the  room  and  from  her  lodgings,  going  whither 
her  memories  led  her,  to  distant  faces,  to  for- 
gotten places,  to  pale  and  beloved  countenances, 
lost  in  a  solemn  somnolence,  which  Germinie 
respected,  saying: 

"Mademoiselle  is  wrapt  up  in  her  reflections." 
One  day,  nevertheless,  of  every  week,  she  went 
out.  It  had  been  on  account  of  this  excursion, 
and  in  order  to  be  nearer  the  place  to  which  she 
wished  to  go  on  this  day,  that  she  had  left  her 
apartments  in  the  Rue  Taitbout  and  had  come  to 
lodge  in  the  Rue  de  Laval.  One  day  in  every 
week,  nothing,  not  even  sickness,  being  able  to 
prevent  her,  she  went  to  the  cemetery  of  Mont- 
martre,  in  which  rested  her  father,  her  brother, 
the  women  whom  she  regretted,  and  all  those 
whose  pain  had  ended  before  her  own.  For  the 
dead  and  for  death  she  had  an  almost  ancient 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

reverence.  The  grave  to  her  was  sacred,  dear, 
and  a  friend.  She  loved  the  earth  of  hope  and 
deliverance  in  which  her  friends  were  sleeping, 
so  that  she  looked  for  it  and  held  her  body  in 
readiness. 

On  that  day  she  used  to  set  out  early  with  her 
maid,  who  gave  her  an  arm,  and  carried  a  folding- 
chair. Close  to  the  cemetery,  she  entered  the 
shop  of  a  wreath-seller  who  had  known  her  for 
long  years,  and  who,  in  winter,  used  to  bring 
her  foot-warmer  and  place  it  under  her  feet. 
Here  she  would  rest  for  a  few  moments;  then, 
loading  Germinie  with  wreaths  of  immortelles, 
she  passed  through  the  gate  of  the  cemetery, 
took  the  walk  on  the  left  of  the  cedar  at  the 
entrance,  and  slowly  made  her  pilgrimage  from 
tomb  to  tomb.  She  threw  away  the  withered  flow- 
ers, swept  up  the  dead  leaves,  fastened  the  wreaths, 
sat  down  upon  her  folding-chair,  looked,  dreamed, 
or  with  the  end  of  her  parasol  abstractedly  loosened 
a  patch  of  mouldy  moss  on  the  flat-stone.  Then 
she  would  get  up,  turn  round  as  though  to  bid  the 
grave  that  she  was  leaving  good-bye,  go  some  dis- 
tance farther,  stop  again,  talk  in  a  whisper,  as 
she  had  already  been  doing  with  that  portion  of 
her  heart  which  slept  beneath  the  stone;  and, 
her  visit  being  thus  paid  to  all  the  dead  of  her 
affections,  she  would  return  slowly,  religiously, 
enwrapping  herself  in  silence,  and  as  though  afraid 
to  speak. 

C393 


Ill 


IN  her  reverie,  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  had 
closed  her  eyes.      The  maid's  talk  stopped, 
and   the   remainder   of  her   life,    which    was 
that  evening  upon  her  lips,  went  back  into  her 
heart.     The  end  of  her  story  was  this: 

When  little  Germinie  Lacerteux,  not  yet  fifteen 
years  old,  had  reached  Paris,  her  sisters,  eager 
to  see  her  earning  her  own  livelihood,  and  to  put 
her  in  the  way  of  getting  her  bread,  had  placed  her 
in  a  little  cafe  on  the  Boulevard,  where  she  acted 
both  as  lady's-maid  to  the  mistress  of  the  cafe 
and  as  assistant  to  the  waiters  in  the  heavy  work 
of  the  establishment.  The  child,  fresh  from  her 
village,  and  dropped  here  abruptly,  felt  strange 
and  quite  scared  in  this  place,  this  service.  She 
felt  the  first  instinct  of  her  modesty  and  her  in- 
cipient womanhood  quiver  at  the  perpetual  con- 
tact with  the  waiters,  at  the  community  of  work, 
food,  and  existence  with  men;  and  every  time 
that  she  was  allowed  out,  and  went  to  see  her 
sisters,  there  were  tears,  and  despair,  and  scenes 
in  which,  without  complaining  definitely  of  any- 
thing, she  showed  something  like  terror  at  going 
back,  saying  that  she  could  not  stay  there  any 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

longer,  that  she  did  not  like  it,  that  she  would 
rather  go  back  home.  She  was  answered  that  her 
coming  had  already  cost  money  enough,  that  she 
was  fanciful,  that  she  was  very  well  off  where  she 
was,  and  so  she  was  sent  back  to  the  cafe  in  tears. 
She  did  not  dare  to  tell  all  that  she  suffered 
from  her  association  with  these  cafe  waiters, 
brazen,  jocular,  and  cynical  as  they  were,  fed  on 
the  leavings  of  debauchery,  polluted  by  all  the 
vices  to  which  they  ministered,  and  blending 
within  them  all  the  rottenness  of  the  relics  of  orgy. 
At  all  hours  she  had  to  endure  the  cowardly  jests, 
the  cruel  mystifications,  and  the  unkindnesses  of 
these  men,  who  were  happy  at  finding  a  little 
martyr  in  this  shy,  little  lass  with  the  oppressed 
and  sickly  look,  who  knew  nothing,  who  was 
timorous  and  distrustful  and  thin,  and  pitiably 
clad  in  her  sorry  little  country  dresses.  Bewil- 
dered, and  as  one  overwhelmed  beneath  the  un- 
intermittent  torture,  she  became  their  butt.  They 
played  upon  her  ignorance,  they  deceived  and 
deluded  her  with  their  tricks,  they  crushed  her 
with  fatigue,  they  dulled  her  with  continual  and 
pitiless  mockeries  that  well-nigh  drove  her  dis- 
concerted understanding  into  imbecility.  Then, 
again,  they  made  her  blush  at  things  which  they 
said  to  her,  and  of  which  she  felt  ashamed  without 
understanding  them.  They  played  with  filthy 
ambiguities  upon  the  ingenuousness  of  her  four- 
teen years.  And  they  amused  themselves  by 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

putting  the  eyes  of  her  childish  curiosity  to  the 
keyholes  of  the  supper-rooms. 

The  girl  wished  to  confide  in  her  sisters,  but  she 
dared  not.  As  with  food  a  little  flesh  came  upon 
her  body,  and  a  little  color  into  her  cheeks,  their 
freedom  increased  and  grew  bolder.  There  were 
familiarities,  gestures,  approaches  from  which  she 
escaped  and  rescued  herself  pure,  but  which  im- 
paired her  candor  by  touching  her  innocence. 
Ill-treated,  scolded,  used  brutally  by  the  master 
of  the  establishment,  who  was  accustomed  to 
seduce  his  female  servants,  and  who  bore  her  ill- 
will  because  she  was  neither  old  enough  nor  fit 
to  be  his  mistress,  it  was  only  from  his  wife  that 
she  met  with  a  little  support  and  humanity.  She 
began  to  love  this  woman  with  a  sort  of  animal 
devotion,  and  to  obey  her  with  dog-like  docility. 
She  performed  all  her  commissions  without  either 
reflection  or  conscience.  She  carried  her  letters 
to  her  lovers,  and  was  skilful  in  doing  it.  She 
became  nimble,  brisk,  ingeniously  subtle  in  order 
to  pass,  to  slip,  to  glide  among  the  awakened  sus- 
picions of  her  husband,  and,  without  well  know- 
ing what  she  was  doing,  or  what  she  was  hiding, 
she  took  a  wicked  little  mischievous  and  monkey- 
ish joy  in  vaguely  telling  herself  that  she  was 
working  something  of  harm  to  the  man  and  the 
house  which  wrought  so  much  harm  to  her. 

There  was  also  among  her  comrades  an  old 
waiter  of  the  name  of  Joseph,  who  protected  her, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

warned  her  of  the  unkind  tricks  that  were  plotted 
against  her,  and,  when  she  was  present,  checked 
too  great  freedom  of  conversation  by  the  author- 
ity of  his  white  hairs  and  with  a  paternal  interest. 
Nevertheless,  Germinie's  horror  of  the  house  in- 
creased every  day.  One  week  her  sisters  were 
obliged  to  take  her  back  to  the  cafe  by  force. 

A  few  days  afterwards  there  was  a  great  review 
at  the  Champ  de  Mars,  and  the  waiters  had  leave 
for  the  day.  Only  Germinie  and  old  Joseph  re- 
mained behind.  Joseph  was  engaged  in  a  little 
dark  room  putting  away  dirty  linen.  He  told 
Germinie  to  come  and  help  him.  She  went  in, 
shrieked,  fell,  wept,  entreated,  struggled,  called 
out  despairingly  -  -  the  empty  house  continued 
deaf. 

When  she  came  to  herself,  Germinie  ran  and 
shut  herself  up  in  her  own  room.  She  was  not 
seen  again  during  the  day.  On  the  morrow,  when 
Joseph  wished  to  speak  to  her,  and  advanced 
towards  her,  she  recoiled  in  terror  with  a  wild 
gesture  and  in  mad  fright.  For  a  long  time, 
whenever  a  man  approached  her  she  would  in- 
voluntarily draw  back  with  a  first,  abrupt  move- 
ment, shuddering  and  nervous  as  though  smitten 
with  the  fear  of  a  distracted  animal  seeking  some 
way  of  escape.  Joseph,  who  had  dreaded  that 
she  would  denounce  him,  allowed  her  to  keep  him 
at  a  distance,  and  respected  the  frightful  loathing 
which  she  displayed  towards  him. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

She  became  pregnant.  One  Sunday  she  had 
been  to  spend  the  evening  with  her  sister,  the  door- 
keeper; after  some  vomitings  she  felt  ill.  A  doctor 
who  resided  in  the  house  was  getting  his  key  at 
the  lodge;  the  two  elder  sisters  learned  from  him 
the  position  of  the  youngest.  (The  intractable, 
brutal  revolts  of  pride  characteristic  of  the  honor 
of  the  people,  and  the  implacable  severities  of 
religion,  broke  out  on  the  part  of  the  two  women 
into  indignant  anger. ,  Their  shame  turned  to  rage. 
Germinie  recovered  Tier  senses  beneath  their  blows, 
their  abuse,  the  woundings  of  their  hands,  the  out- 
rages of  their  mouths.  Her  brother-in-law  who 
was  there  and  who  could  not  forgive  her  the  money 
that  her  journey  had  cost,  looked  at  her  in  a 
jeering  way,  with  the  sly,  fierce  joy  of  an  Auverg- 
nat,  with  a  laugh  which  brought  to  the  young 
girl's  cheeks  even  more  color  than  the  slaps  of 
her  sisters. 

She  accepted  the  blows;  she  did  not  repel  the 
abuse.  She  did  not  seek  either  to  defend  or  to 
excuse  herself.  She  gave  no  account  of  how  things 
had  occurred,  and  of  how  little  her  own  will  entered 
into  her  misfortune.  She  remained  dumb;  she 
had  a  vague  hope  that  they  would  kill  her.  On 
her  eldest  sister  asking  her  whether  there  had  not 
been  violence,  and  telling  her  that  there  were  com- 
missaries of  police  and  courts  of  law,  she  shut  her 
eyes  to  the  horrible  thought  of  displaying  her 
shame.  For  an  instant  only,  when  her  mother's 

C443 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

memory  was  flung  in  her  teeth,  she  gave  a  look, 
a  flash  from  her  eyes  which  the  two  women  could 
feel  piercing  their  consciences;  they  remembered 
that  it  was  they  who  had  placed  her  in  this  situa- 
tion, had  kept  her  in  it,  had  exposed  and  almost 
forced  her  to  her  shame. 

The  same  evening  Germinie's  youngest  sister 
took  her  to  a  cashmere-darner  in  the  Rue  Saint- 
Martin,  with  whom  she  lodged,  and  who,  mad 
almost  about  religion,  was  banner-bearer  in  an 
association  of  the  Virgin.  She  put  her  to  sleep 
with  herself  on  a  mattress  on  the  floor,  and  having 
her  there  within  reach  the  whole  night,  she  vented 
her  ancient  and  venomous  jealousies  upon  her, 
her  resentment  for  the  preferences  and  caresses 
given  to  Germinie  by  her  father  and  mother. 
There  were  a  thousand  petty  tortures,  brutal  or 
hypocritical  unkindnesses,  kicks  with  which  she 
bruised  her  legs,  shoves  of  her  body  with  which 
in  the  cold  of  winter  she  gradually  pushed  her 
companion  out  of  bed  on  to  the  tiled  floor  of  the 
Tireless  room.  During  the  day-time,  the  darner 
took  possession  of  Germinie,  catechised  her,  lec- 
tured her,  and  with  her  details  of  the  tortures  of 
the  life  to  come,  gave  her  a  terrible  and  material 
fear  of  the  hell  whose  flames  she  made  her  feel. 

She  lived  there  for  four  months  shut  up  and  not 
allowed  to  go  out.  At  the  end  of  four  months  she 
gave  birth  to  a  dead  child.  When  she  had  re- 
covered, she  entered  the  service  of  a  depilator  in 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  Rue  Laflitte,  where  during  the  first  few  days 
she  experienced  the  joy  of  one  released  from 
prison. 

Two  or  three  times  when  going  backwards  and 
forwards  she  met  old  Joseph,  who  wished  to  marry 
her,  and  ran  after  her.  She  fled  from  him,  and  the 
old  man  never  knew  that  he  had  been  a  father. 

Nevertheless,  Germinie  pined  away  in  her  new 
place.  The  house  for  which  she  had  been  engaged 
as  maid-of-all-work  was  what  servants  call  a 
"hole."  Wasteful  and  a  spendthrift,  untidy  and 
penniless,  as  is  the  case  with  women  in  the  un- 
certain trades  and  problematic  callings  of  Paris, 
the  depilator,  who  was  nearly  always  hovering 
between  seizure  for  debt  and  going  away,  troubled 
herself  but  little  about  the  manner  in  which  her 
little  maid  was  fed.  She  would  frequently  go  out 
for  the  whole  day  without  leaving  her  anything 
for  dinner.  The  girl  would  satisfy  herself  as  best 
she  could  with  pickles,  with  salads  and  vinegared 
things  such  as  beguile  the  appetite  of  young 
women,  with  charcoal  even,  which  she  would 
nibble  with  the  depraved  tastes  and  food  caprices 
belonging  to  her  age  and  sex. 

This  diet,  following  upon  an  accouchement, 
and  adopted  in  a  state  of  health  that  was  weak 
and  required  tonics,  emaciated,  exhausted,  and 
undermined  the  young  girl.  Her  condition  be- 
came alarming.  Her  complexion  came  to  be  of 
that  whiteness  which  appears  to  turn  green  in 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  open  light.  Her  swollen  eyes  were  encircled 
with  great,  bluish  shadows.  Her  discolored  lips 
assumed  a  tint  as  of  faded  violets.  She  was 
rendered  breathless  by  the  slightest  ascent,  and 
people  near  her  were  annoyed  by  the  incessant 
vibration  coming  from  the  arteries  of  her  throat. 
With  slow  feet,  and  a  sinking  frame,  she  would 
drag  herself  along  as  though  her  weakness  were 
extreme,  and  she  were  bending  beneath  the  bur- 
den of  life.  With  semi-dormant  faculties  and 
senses,  she  would  swoon  for  a  mere  trifle,  such  as 
the  fatigue  of  combing  her  mistress's  hair. 

She  was  quietly  sinking  into  her  grave  when  her 
sister  found  her  another  situation  with  a  whilom 
actor,  a  retired  comedian,  living  on  the  money 
which  had  been  brought  him  by  the  laughter  of  all 
Paris.  The  worthy  man  was  old,  and  had  never 
had  any  children.  He  took  pity  on  the  wretched 
girl,  thought  about  her,  cared  for  her,  nursed  her. 
He  took  her  to  the  country.  He  walked  with  her 
in  the  sunshine  on  the  Boulevards,  and  felt  him- 
self revived  on  her  arm.  He  was  pleased  to  see 
her  cheerful.  Often  to  amuse  her,  he  would  take 
down  a  moth-eaten  costume  from  his  wardrobe, 
and  try  to  recall  a  fragment  of  a  part  which  he 
could  no  longer  remember.  The  mere  sight  of 
the  little  maid  in  her  white  cap  was  a  ray  of  youth 
coming  back  to  him.  The  old  age  of  the  clown 
leaned  upon  her  with  the  good  fellowship  and 
pleasure  and  childishness  of  a  grandfather's  heart. 

[47H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

But  he  died  at  the  end  of  a  few  months;  and 
Germinie  fell  back  to  waiting  upon  kept  women, 
boarding-school  mistresses,  and  shopkeepers  in 
the  arcades,  when  the  sudden  death  of  a  servant- 
maid  brought  her  into  the  service  of  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil,  then  residing  in  the  Rue  Taitbout, 
in  the  house  in  which  Germinie's  sister  was  con- 
cierge. 


£483 


IV 

(  ^T^HOSE  who  can  see  the  end  of  the  Catholic 
Religion  in  the  time  at  which  we  find  our- 
selves at  present,  do  not  know  what  power- 
ful and  infinite  roots  it  still  strikes  into  the  depths 
of  the  people.  They  do  not  know  the  secret  and 
delicate  entwinings  which  it  has  for  the  woman  of 
the  people.  They  do  not  know  what  confession, 
what  the  confessor  is  for  the  poor  souls  of  poor 
women.  In  the  priest  who  listens  to  her,  and 
whose  voice  comes  softly  to  her,  the  woman  of 
toil  and  pain  sees  not  so  much  the  minister  of 
God,  the  judge  of  her  sins,  and  the  arbiter  of  her 
salvation,  as  the  confidant  of  her  sorrows  and  the 
friend  of  her  miseries.  However  coarse  she  may 
be,  there  is  always  in  her  somewhat  of  the  woman's 
inner  nature,  a  feverish,  quivering,  sensitive 
wounded  something,  a  restlessness  and  longing 
like  that  of  a  sick  creature  looking  for  the  caresses 
of  speech,  just  as  a  child's  little  troubles  call  for 
the  crooning  of  a  nurse. 

She,  no  less  than  the  woman  of  fashion,  needs 
relief  in  expansiveness,  confidence,  effusion.  For 
it  is  of  the  nature  of  her  sex  to  wish  to  unbosom 
and  to  learn.  There  exist  within  her  things  which 

C493 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

she  needs  to  say,  and  upon  which  she  would  fain 
be  questioned,  pitied,  comforted.  She  dreams  of 
pitiful  interest  and  of  sympathy  for  hidden  feelings 
of  which  she  feels  ashamed.  Though  her  employ- 
ers may  be  the  best,  the  most  familiar,  the  most 
friendly,  even,  with  the  woman  who  serves  them, 
they  will  show  her  only  those  kindnesses  which 
are  thrown  to  a  domestic  animal.  They  will  be 
anxious  about  the  way  in  which  she  eats,  or  feels; 
they  will  care  for  the  animal  in  her,  and  that  will 
be  all.  They  will  never  imagine  that  she  can 
suffer  in  any  other  place  than  body,  and  they  will 
never  suppose  in  her  the  discomforts  of  soul,  the 
immaterial  melancholies  and  sorrows  for  which 
they  themselves  find  relief  by  confiding  in  their 
equals. 

To  them  the  woman  who  sweeps  and  cooks  has 
no  ideas  capable  of  rendering  her  sad  or  a  dreamer, 
and  they  never  speak  to  her  of  her  thoughts.  To 
whom,  then,  shall  she  carry  them?  To  the  priest, 
who  awaits  them,  requests  them  and  receives  them, 
to  the  churchman  who  is  a  man  of  the  world,  a 
superior,  a  gentleman  well  bred,  and  learned,  who 
speaks  well,  who  is  always  gentle,  accessible, 
patient,  attentive,  and  who  seems  to  despise 
nothing  in  the  most  humble  soul,  in  the  most 
poorly  dressed  penitent.  The  priest  alone  is  the 
listener  of  the  woman  in  the  cap.  He  alone  is 
troubled  about  her  secret  sufferings,  about  what 
disturbs  her,  and  agitates  her,  and  suddenly  creates 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

in  maid,  no  less  than  in  mistress,  a  longing  to 
weep  or  the  heaviness  of  a  storm.  He  is  the  only 
one  who  seeks  her  outpourings,  who  draws  from 
her  what  the  irony  of  each  day  thrusts  back,  who 
busies  himself  about  her  moral  health;  the  only 
one  who  lifts  her  higher  than  her  material  life, 
the  only  one  who  moves  her  with  words  of  tender- 
ness, charity,  hope,  —  heavenly  words  such  as 
she  has  never  heard  in  the  mouths  of  the  men  of 
her  family-circle  or  the  males  of  her  own  class. 

After  entering  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil's 
service,  Germinie  lapsed  into  profound  devotion, 
and  ceased  to  love  anything  but  the  Church. 
She  gradually  gave  herself  up  to  the  sweetness  of 
confession,  to  the  even,  serene,  low  tones  coming 
from  the  priest  in  the  shade,  to  consultations 
which  were  like  touchings  with  caressing  words, 
and  from  which  she  went  forth  refreshed,  light, 
delivered,  happy,  and  with  the  pleasing  sensation 
and  comfort  of  a  dressing  in  all  the  tender,  painful 
and  compressed  parts  of  her  being. 

She  did  and  could  not  unbosom  herself  any- 
where but  there.  Her  mistress  had  a  certain 
masculine  roughness  which  repelled  expansive- 
ness.  There  was  a  bluntness  in  her  address  and 
speech  which  drove  back  what  Germinie  would 
have  been  willing  to  confide  in  her.  It  was  her 
nature  to  be  brutal  to  all  jeremiads  which  did  not 
proceed  from  a  pain  or  a  sorrow.  Her  virile  kind- 
ness was  not  compassionate  to  discomforts  of  the 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

imagination,  to  the  torments  which  thought  creates 
for  itself,  to  the  cares  which  arise  from  woman's 
nerves  and  the  disturbances  of  her  organism. 
Germinie  often  found  her  callous,  but  the  old 
woman  had  only  been  bronzed  by  her  time  and 
her  life.  The  crust  on  her  heart  was  as  hard  as 
her  body.  Never  herself  complaining,  she  did  not 
like  complaints  around  her.  And  in  right  of  all 
the  tears  she  had  not  shed  she  detested  childish 
tears  in  grown  people. 

The  confessional  was  soon  a  sort  of  delightful 
and  sacred  trysting-place  for  Germinie's  thoughts. 
Every  day  it  had  her  first  remembrance  and  her 
last  prayer.  Throughout  the  day  she  knelt  there 
in  a  dream,  and  while  she  worked  it  would  come 
back  to  her  eyes  —  its  gold-filleted  oak-wood,  its 
pediment  of  an  angel's  winged  head,  its  green 
curtain  with  the  motionless  folds,  the  shadowy 
mystery  of  its  two  sides.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
now  her  whole  life  centred  in  it,  and  that  all  her 
hours  tended  towards  it.  She  lived  through  the 
week  only  to  reach  the  desired,  promised,  called- 
for  day.  From  Thursday,  she  was  a  prey  to  im- 
patience; in  the  heightening  of  a  delicious  anguish 
she  could  feel,  as  it  were,  the  material  approach 
of  the  blissful  Saturday  evening,  and  when  Satur- 
day was  come,  her  work  hurried  over,  and  made- 
moiselle's little  dinner  hastily  served,  she  would 
make  her  escape  and  hasten  to  Notre  Dame  de 
Lorette,  going  to  repentance  as  people  go  to  love. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Having  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  holy  water,  and 
made  a  genuflexion,  she  passed  over  the  flagstones 
between  the  rows  of  chairs  with  the  gliding  move- 
ment of  a  cat  stealing  over  a  carpet.  Stooping, 
almost  creeping,  she  would  advance  noiselessly 
through  the  shadow  of  the  aisle,  as  far  as  the 
veiled  and  mysterious  confessional  which  she 
recognized  and  beside  which  she  waited  for  her 
turn,  lost  in  the  emotion  of  waiting. 

The  young  priest  who  confessed  her  lent  him- 
self to  her  frequent  confessions.  He  grudged  her 
neither  time,  nor  attention,  nor  charity.  He 
suffered  her  to  talk  at  length,  to  relate  in  full  to 
him  all  her  little  affairs.  He  was  indulgent  to 
her  talkativeness,  which  was  that  of  a  troubled 
soul,  and  allowed  her  to  pour  out  her  most  trifling 
griefs.  He  received  the  avowal  of  her  anxieties, 
her  longings,  her  troubles;  he  repelled  and  scorned 
nothing  of  the  confidences  of  a  servant  who  spoke 
to  him  of  all  the  delicate  and  secret  matters  of 
her  being,  as  they  would  be  spoken  of  to  a  mother 
or  to  a  physician. 

This  priest  was  young.  He  was  good.  He  had 
lived  the  life  of  the  world.  A  great  sorrow  had 
driven  him,  a  crushed  man,  to  the  robe  with  which 
he  wore  the  mourning  of  his  heart.  Something 
of  the  man  remained  within  him,  and  he  listened 
with  sad  pity  to  the  unhappy  heart  of  a  servant 
maid.  He  comprehended  that  Germinie  had  need 
of  him,  that  he  was  supporting  her,  strengthening 

C533 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

her,  saving  her  from  herself,  withdrawing  her  from 
the  temptations  of  her  nature.  He  felt  a  melan- 
choly sympathy  for  this  soul  so  fully  formed  of 
tenderness,  for  this  young  girl  at  once  so  ardent 
and  so  weak,  for  this  unhappy  creature  so  uncon- 
scious of  herself,  so  given  up  to  passion  by  her 
whole  heart  and  body,  and  arguing  so  completely 
in  her  whole  personality  the  destiny  of  tempera- 
ment. Enlightened  by  the  experience  of  his  post, 
he  was  astonished,  he  was  alarmed  sometimes, 
at  the  flashes  which  came  from  her,  the  fire  which 
showed  in  her  eyes  at  the  love-transport  of  a 
prayer,  at  the  precipitation  of  her  confessions, 
at  her  recurrences  to  that  scene  of  violence, 
that  scene  in  which  her  very  sincere  wish  for 
resistance  appeared  to  the  priest  to  have  been 
betrayed  by  a  dizziness  of  the  senses  that  was 
stronger  than  she. 

This  religious  fever  lasted  for  several  years, 
during  which  Germinie  lived  concentrated,  silent, 
radiant,  devoted  to  God,  —  or  at  least  she  thought 
so.  By  degrees,  however,  her  confessor  had 
thought  he  could  see  that  all  her  adorations  turned 
towards  himself.  From  glances,  from  blushes, 
from  words  which  she  no  longer  uttered  to  him, 
and  others  which  she  was  growing  bold  enough  to 
utter  to  him  for  the  first  time,  he  understood  that 
the  devotion  of  his  penitent  was  going  astray  and 
becoming  exalted  by  self-deception.  She  watched 
him  when  the  service  was  over,  followed  him  into 

C54H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  vestry,  attached  herself  to  him,  and  ran  after 
his  cassock  in  the  church. 

The  confessor  tried  to  warn  Germinie,  and  to 
turn  aside  this  amorous  fervor  from  himself.  He 
became  more  reserved,  and  armed  himself  with 
coldness.  Distressed  by  this  change,  this  indiffer- 
ence, Germinie,  embittered  and  wounded,  acknowl- 
edged to  him  one  day  at  confession  the  feelings  of 
hatred  which  came  to  her  against  two  young  girls, 
the  penitents  preferred  by  the  Abbe.  Then  the 
priest,  dismissing  her  without  any  explanation, 
sent  her  to  another  confessor.  Germinie  went 
two  or  three  times  to  confess  herself  to  this  other 
confessor;  then  she  went  no  more;  then  she  even 
ceased  to  think  of  going;  and  of  all  her  religion 
there  remained  in  her  thoughts  but  a  certain  far- 
off  sweetness,  like  the  flavorless  odor  of  extin- 
guished incense. 

She  had  reached  this  point  when  mademoiselle 
fell  ill.  During  the  whole  period  of  her  sickness, 
Germinie,  unwilling  to  leave  her,  did  not  go  to 
mass.  And  the  first  Sunday  on  which  mademoi- 
selle, being  completely  recovered,  had  no  further 
need  of  her  attentions,  she  was  astonished  to  see 
"her  devotee"  remain  at  home  and  not  make 
her  escape  to  the  church. 

"Ah,"  she  said  to  her,  "so  you  are  not  going 
to  see  your  priests  any  more  just  now?  What 
have  they  been  doing  to  you,  eh?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Germinie. 


"'TT^HERE,  mademoiselle!     Look  at  me,"  said 
Germinie. 

It  was  some  months  later.  She  had 
asked  her  mistress's  permission  to  go  that  evening 
to  the  dance  at  the  wedding  of  her  grocer's  sister, 
who  had  chosen  her  for  a  bridesmaid,  and  now 
she  was  coming  to  show  herself  fully  arrayed  in 
her  low-necked  muslin  dress. 

Mademoiselle  raised  her  head  from  the  old, 
large  print  volume  in  which  she  was  reading,  took 
off  her  spectacles,  put  them  into  the  book  to 
mark  the  page,  and  said: 

''You,  you  pious  creature,  you  at  a  dance! 
Do  you  know  what  it  is,  my  girl,  it  seems  to  me 
perfectly  absurd!  You  and  the  rigadoon  —  upon 
my  word,  the  only  thing  you  need  now  is  the  wish 
to  get  married!  I  warn  you  I  will  not  keep  you. 
I  have  no  inclination  to  become  a  nurse  to  your 
brats.  Come  a  little  nearer.  Oh  ho!  why,  upon 
my  word,  Miss  Show-all!  We  have  been  very 
coquettish,  as  I  can  see,  for  some  time  past." 

"Oh  no,  mademoiselle,"  Germinie  tried  to  say. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  resumed  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  following  up  her  idea,  "men  are  pretty 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

fellows!  They  will  take  everything  you  have  to 
give  them  .  .  .  not  to  mention  the  blows  they 
give  you.  But  marriage  —  I  am  sure  that  this 
idea  of  getting  married  runs  in  your  brain  when 
you  see  the  others.  I'll  wager  it's  that  that  gives 
you  such  a  face?  Gracious  goodness!  now  turn 
round  a  little  and  let  yourself  be  seen,"  said  Made- 
moiselle de  Varandeuil  in  her  tone  of  blunt  caress; 
and,  laying  her  thin  hands  on  the  arms  of  her 
easy  chair,  crossing  her  legs  the  one  above  the 
other,  and  shaking  the  tip  of  her  foot,  she  began 
to  inspect  Germinie  and  her  toilet. 

"My  word!"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments  of 
mute  attention,  "What,  is  it  you?  Then  I  have 
never  really  looked  at  you  properly.  Good 
gracious,  yes !  Why  —  why !  —  She  mumbled 
some  further  vague  exclamations  between  her 
teeth — "Where  the  mischief  did  you  get  that 
face  of  yours  like  the  muzzle  of  a  cat  in  love?" 
she  said  at  last;  and  she  began  to  gaze  at  her. 

Germinie  was  ugly.  Her  hair,  which  was  of 
dark  chestnut,  and  appeared  black,  was  frizzled 
and  twisted  into  intractable  waves,  into  little 
rough  and  rebellious  locks,  which  had  escaped 
and  raised  themselves  upon  her  head  in  spite  of 
the  pomade  up>on  her  smoothened  band.  Her 
small,  smooth,  prominent  forehead  projected  from 
the  shadows  of  the  deep  sockets  in  which  her  eyes 
were  almost  unhealthily  sunk  and  hollowed  — 
small,  watchful,  twinkling  eyes,  which  lessened 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

and  kindled  with  a  twinkling  like  a  little  girl's, 
which  softened  and  lit  up  their  smile.  These  eyes 
did  not  look  either  brown  or  blue;  they  were  of 
an  indefinable  and  changeful  grey,  a  grey  which 
was  not  a  color,  but  a  light.  Emotion  showed  in 
them  in  the  fire  of  fever,  pleasure  in  the  lightning 
of  a  sort  of  intoxication,  and  passion  in  phosphor- 
escence. 

Her  short,  high,  broadly-perforated  nose,  with 
open  quivering  nostrils,  was  one  of  those  noses 
of  which  the  people  say  that  it  is  raining  inside. 
A  big  blue  vein  swelled  on  one  side  of  it  at  the 
corner  of  the  eye.  The  breadth  of  face  character- 
istic of  the  Lorraine  stock  appeared  in  her  broad, 
strong,  pronounced  cheek-bones,  which  were 
covered  with  traces  of  small-pox.  The  greatest 
misfortune  in  her  face  was  the  excessive  distance 
between  the  nose  and  mouth.  This  lack  of  pro- 
portion gave  an  almost  simian  character  to  the 
lower  part  of  the  countenance  where  a  large 
mouth,  with  white  teeth,  and  full,  flat,  and,  as  it 
were,  crushed  lips,  smiled  with  a  strange  and 
vaguely  irritating  smile. 

Her  low  dress  showed  her  neck,  the  upper  part 
of  her  breast,  her  shoulders,  and  the  whiteness  of 
her  back,  contrasting  with  her  sun-burnt  face. 
It  was  a  lymphatic  whiteness,  the  sickly  and,  at 
the  same  time,  angelic  whiteness  of  flesh  that 
does  not  live.  She  had  allowed  her  arms  to  hang 
down  by  her  side,  round,  smooth  arms  with  pretty 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

dimpled  hollows  at  the  elbow.  Her  wrists  were 
delicate;  her  hands,  which  had  no  look  of  work, 
had  a  woman's  nails.  And  gently,  with  lazy 
grace,  she  suffered  her  indolent  waist  to  round 
and  play,  a  waist  that  could  be  held  within  a 
garter,  and  that  rendered  still  more  refined  to  the 
eye  the  projection  of  the  hips,  and  the  rebound 
of  the  curves  swelling  the  dress,  an  impossible 
waist,  ridiculous  in  its  slenderness,  and  delightful 
as  is  everything  in  woman  which  possesses  the 
monstrosity  of  littleness. 

From  this  ugly  woman  there  was  shed  a  harsh 
and  mysterious  seductiveness.  Light  and  shade, 
conflicting  with  and  shattering  each  other  in  her 
face  with  its  abundant  hollows  and  projections, 
imparted  to  it  that  radiance  of  voluptuousness 
which  one  who  paints  from  love  dashes  into  the 
rough  sketch  of  his  mistress's  portrait.  Every- 
thing about  her,  her  mouth,  her  eyes,  her  very 
ugliness,  was  a  provocation  and  solicitation.  An 
aphrodisiac  charm  issued  from  her,  attacking,  and 
attaching  itself  to,  the  opposite  sex.  She  released 
desire,  and  created  the  commotion  that  it  brings. 
A  sensual  temptation  sprang  naturally  and  in- 
voluntarily from  her,  from  her  gestures,  from  her 
gait,  from  the  slightest  of  her  movements,  from 
the  air  on  which  her  body  had  left  one  of  its  undu- 
lations. Beside  her,  a  man  felt  that  he  was  near 
one  of  those  disturbing  and  disquieted  creatures, 
burning  with  the  disease  of  love,  and  communi- 

C593 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

eating  it  to  others,  whose  faces  recur  to  men  at 
unsated  hours,  tormenting  their  heavy  midnight 
thoughts,  haunting  their  nights,  and  violating 
their  dreams. 

In  the  middle  of  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil's 
examination,  Germinie  stooped  down,  bent  over 
her,  and  kissed  her  hand  with  eager  kisses. 

"Well --well  —  enough  licking,"  said  made- 
moiselle, "you  would  wear  out  the  skin  with  your 
mode  of  kissing.  Come,  be  off,  amuse  yourself, 
and  try  not  to  come  in  too  late  —  don't  wear 
yourself  out." 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  was  left  alone. 
She  put  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  gazed  into  the 
fire,  and  dealt  some  blows  to  the  fuel  \vith  the 
tongs.  Then,  as  she  was  wront  to  do  when  greatly 
pre-occupied,  with  the  flat  of  her  hand  she  gave  the 
back  of  her  neck  two  or  three  sharp  little  blows 
which  made  her  black  head-band  all  awry. 


VI 


IN  talking  matrimony  to  Germinie,  Made- 
moiselle de  Varandeuil  touched  the  cause  of 
Germinie's  complaint.  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  her  trouble.  The  irregularity  of  her  maid's 
temper,  the  vexation  of  her  life,  the  languors, 
the  emptiness,  and  the  discontent  of  her  nature, 
came  from  that  disease  which  medicine  calls 
"virgin's  melancholy."  The  suffering  of  her  four 
and  twenty  years  was  the  ardent,  exalted,  poign- 
ant desire  for  marriage,  for  that  thing  too  holily 
honorable  for  her,  and  to  her  apparently  impos- 
sible in  the  face  of  the  confession  which  her  wom- 
an's probity  must  make  of  her  fall,  of  her  shame. 
Losses,  family  misfortunes,  came  to  tear  her  from 
her  thoughts. 

Her  brother-in-law,  the  husband  to  her  sister 
the  concierge,  had  had  the  dream  of  the  Auver- 
gnats:  he  had  sought  to  unite  the  gains  of  a  trade 
in  bric-a-brac  to  the  profits  of  his  concierge's 
lodge.  He  had  begun  modestly  with  one  of  those 
street-stalls  that  hang  about  the  doors  of  houses 
where  sales  on  account  of  death  are  taking  place, 
and  on  which,  ranged  on  blue  paper,  may  be  seen 
plated  candlesticks,  ivory  napkin  rings,  colored 

[613 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

lithographs  framed  with  gold  lace  upon  a  black 
ground,  and  three  or  four  odd  volumes  by  BufTon. 
What  he  made  by  the  plated  candlesticks  in- 
toxicated him.  He  hired  a  dark  shop  opposite  an 
umbrella-mender's,  in  an  arcade,  and  there  began 
to  trade  in  the  curiosity  which  comes  and  goes  in 
the  lower  halls  of  the  Auction  Rooms.  He  sold 
cock-patterned  plates,  pieces  of  the  shoe  belong- 
ing to  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  and  water-colored 
drawings  by  Ballue,  signed  VVatteau.  In  this  busi- 
ness he  ran  through  what  he  had  made,  and  then 
went  into  debt  for  some  thousands  of  francs. 

His  wife,  in  order  to  assist  the  housekeeping  a 
little,  and  to  try  to  get  out  of  debt,  applied  for, 
and  obtained  a  situation  as  attendant  at  the 
Theatre-Historique.  She  had  her  door  looked 
after  in  the  evening  by  her  sister,  the  dressmaker, 
went  to  bed  at  one  o'clock,  and  got  up  at  five. 
After  a  few  months  she  contracted  pleurisy  in  the 
corridors  of  the  theatre;  it  lingered  and  carried  her 
off  at  the  end  of  six  weeks.  The  poor  woman  left 
a  little  three-year-old  daughter  ill  of  measles, 
which  had  assumed  the  most  deadly  form  in  the 
stench  of  the  garret  and  in  the  air  wherein  the 
child  had  been  breathing  her  mother's  death  for 
more  than  a  month.  The  father  had  left  for  his 
native  place  to  try  to  borrow  money.  There  he 
married  again,  and  nothing  more  was  heard  of  him. 

On  leaving  her  sister's  funeral,  Germinie  has- 
tened to  visit  an  old  woman  who  lived  by  those 

C62H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

curious  industries,  which  in  Paris  prevent  Misery 
from  dying  outright  of  hunger.  The  old  woman 
followed  several  occupations.  Sometimes  she  cut 
horse-hair  into  equal  lengths  for  brushes,  some- 
times she  divided  pieces  of  ginger-bread.  When 
this  work  was  at  a  standstill,  she  would  cook  for 
petty  itinerant  traders,  and  wash  the  faces  of 
their  children.  During  Lent  she  rose  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  went  to  Notre-Dame 
to  procure  a  chair,  which  she  retailed,  when  the 
people  arrived,  for  ten  or  twelve  sous.  To  warm 
herself  in  the  hole  in  which  she  lived  in  the  Rue 
Saint- Victor,  she  would  go  at  dusk  and  secretly 
tear  the  bark  off  the  trees  at  the  Luxembourg. 
Germinie,  who  knew  her  from  giving  her  the 
kitchen  crusts  every  week,  hired  her  a  servant's 
room  on  the  sixth  floor  of  the  house,  and  installed 
her  in  it  with  the  little  girl.  She  did  this  on  a 
first  impulse,  and  without  reflection.  Her  sister's 
harshness  at  the  time  of  her  pregnancy  she  re- 
membered no  longer;  she  had  not  even  found  it 
necessary  to  forgive  it. 

Germinie  had  now  but  one  thought:  her  niece. 
She  wanted  to  revive  her,  and  prevent  her  from 
dying  by  dint  of  taking  care  of  her.  She  made  her 
escape  every  moment  from  mademoiselle's  house, 
climbed  the  stairs  four  at  a  time  to  the  sixth  floor, 
ran  to  kiss  the  child,  gave  it  some  tisane,  settled 
it  in  its  bed,  looked  at  it,  and  went  down  again 
out  of  breath,  her  color  heightened  with  pleasure. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Germinie  lavished  everything  upon  the  little  girl; 
attention,  caresses,  the  heart-breath  with  which 
one  reanimates  a  little  creature  ready  to  die  away, 
consultations,  doctor's  visits,  costly  medicines, 
the  remedies  of  the  rich  —  she  gave  her  all.  Her 
wages  went  in  this  way.  For  nearly  a  year  she 
made  her  take  some  broth  every  morning,  and, 
given  to  sleep  as  she  was,  she  used  to  get  up  at 
five  o'clock  to  make  it,  awaking  of  her  own  accord 
like  a  mother. 

At  last  the  child  was  saved,  when  one  morning 
Germinie  received  a  visit  from  her  sister,  the 
dressmaker,  who  had  married  a  mechanic  two 
or  three  years  before,  and  now  came  to  bid  good- 
bye: her  husband  was  going  with  some  comrades 
who  had  just  been  hired  for  Africa.  She  was 
leaving  with  him,  and  she  proposed  to  Germinie 
to  take  the  little  girl  and  bring  it  up  yonder  with 
her  own  child.  They  would  take  charge  of  it, 
and  Germinie  would  only  have  to  pay  for  the 
journey.  It  was  a  separation  which  must  in  any 
case  be  faced  on  account  of  Germinie's  mistress. 
Moreover  she,  too,  was  her  aunt.  And  she  added 
words  upon  words  in  order  to  obtain  the  child, 
by  means  of  whom  she  and  her  husband  expected, 
when  once  in  Africa,  to  move  Germinie's  pity, 
to  trick  her  out  of  her  wages,  to  swindle  her  in 
heart  and  purse. 

To  separate  from  her  niece  was  a  sore  trial  to 
Germinie.  She  had  set  something  of  her  own 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

existence  upon  the  child.  She  had  bound  her- 
self to  her  by  anxieties  and  sacrifices.  She  had 
wrestled  with  sickness  for  her,  and  had  rescued 
her  from  it:  the  little  girl's  life  was  a  miracle  of 
her  own  working.  Nevertheless,  she  understood 
that  she  could  never  take  her  into  mademoiselle's 
house;  that  mademoiselle,  at  her  age,  with  the 
weariness  belonging  to  her  years,  and  the  need  of 
quiet  which  old  people  feel,  would  never  endure 
the  constantly  active  noise  of  a  child.  More- 
over, the  little  girl's  presence  in  the  house  would  be 
a  pretext  for  gossip,  and  would  make  the  whole 
street  talk.  People  would  say  that  she  was  her 
daughter.  Germinie  confided  in  her  mistress. 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  knew  all.  She  knew 
that  Germinie  had  taken  her  niece;  but  she 
had  pretended  ignorance  of  the  fact;  she  had 
wished  to  shut  her  eyes  and  see  nothing,  that 
she  might  be  able  to  permit  everything.  She 
advised  Germinie  to  entrust  her  niece  to  her 
sister,  showing  her  all  the  impossibility  of  keep- 
ing her,  and  giving  her  money  to  pay  for  the 
journey  of  the  family. 

The  departure  was  an  anguish  to  Germinie. 
She  found  herself  isolated  and  unoccupied.  Hav- 
ing lost  the  child,  she  had  nothing  left  to  love; 
her  heart  grew  weary,  and  in  the  emptiness  of 
soul  which  she  experienced  without  her  little 
one,  she  turned  again  to  religion,  and  once  more 
took  her  tenderness  to  the  church. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

At  the  end  of  three  months  she  received  the 
news  of  her  sister's  death.  The  husband,  who 
belonged  to  the  tribe  of  whining,  blubbering  work- 
men, gave  her  in  his  letter,  amidst  coarse,  emo- 
tional phrases,  and  strings  of  endearments,  a  dis- 
tressing picture  of  his  position -- the  burial  to 
be  paid  for,  fever  rendering  him  unable  to  work, 
two  children  of  tender  age,  without  counting  the 
"little  one,"  and  a  household  with  no  woman 
in  it  to  heat  the  soup.  Germinie  cried  over  the 
letter;  then  her  thoughts  began  to  live  in  that 
house,  beside  the  poor  man,  among  the  poor 
children,  in  that  frightful  country  of  Africa;  and 
a  dim  desire  to  devote  herself  began  to  awake 
within  her.  Other  letters  followed  in  which,  while 
thanking  her  for  her  assistance,  her  brother-in- 
law  gave  his  misery,  his  forsaken  condition,  his 
complete  misfortunes,  a  still  more  dramatic  color- 
ing, the  coloring  which  the  people  give  to  things 
with  its  recollections  of  the  Boulevard  du  Crime, 
and  its  scraps  of  unwholesome  reading.  Once 
caught  by  the  humbug  of  this  misfortune,  Ger- 
minie could  not  free  herself  from  it.  She  thought 
that  she  could  hear  childish  cries  calling  her 
from  over  yonder.  She  was  buried,  absorbed  in 
a  resolution  and  design  to  go.  She  was  pursued 
by  this  idea,  and  by  the  word  Africa,  which  she 
turned  over  and  over  secretly  in  her  heart,  with- 
out speaking  a  syllable.  Mademoiselle  de  Va- 
randeuil,  seeing  her  so  thoughtful  and  sad,  asked 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

her  what  was  the  matter,  but  in  vain:  Germinie 
would  not  speak. 

She  was  teased  and  tortured  between  what 
seemed  to  her  a  duty,  and  what  appeared  to  her 
an  act  of  ingratitude,  between  her  mistress  and 
her  sisters'  blood.  She  thought  that  she  could 
not  leave  mademoiselle.  And  then  she  told  her- 
self that  God  would  not  forsake  her  family.  She 
looked  at  the  rooms,  saying  to  herself:  "Still  I 
must  go!'*  And  then  she  was  afraid  that  made- 
moiselle might  be  ill  when  she  was  no  longer  there. 
Another  servant!  At  the  thought  of  this  she  was 
seized  with  jealousy,  and  imagined  that  she  could 
already  see  some  one  robbing  her  of  her  mistress. 
At  other  times,  her  religious  notions  impelling 
her  to  notions  of  immolation,  she  was  quite  ready 
to  sacrifice  her  own  existence  to  that  of  her  brother- 
in-law.  She  wished  to  go  and  live  with  a  man 
whom  she  detested,  with  whom  she  had  always 
been  unfriendly,  who  had  almost  killed  her  sister 
with  sorrow,  whom  she  knew  to  be  drunken  and 
brutal;  and  all  that  she  expected  from  him,  all 
that  she  dreaded  from  him,  the  certainty  and  the 
fear  of  all  that  she  would  have  to  suffer,  served 
but  to  exalt  her,  to  inflame  her,  to  incite  her  to 
the  sacrifice  with  increased  impatience  and  ardor. 

Often  it  would  all  subside  in  an  instant;  at  a 
word  or  a  gesture  from  mademoiselle,  Germinie 
would  return  to  herself  and  be  quite  different 
again.  She  would  feel  herself  wholly  and  for  ever 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

attached  to  her  mistress,  and  experience  a  kind 
of  horror  at  the  mere  thought  of  separating  her 
life  from  her  own.  She  struggled  on  in  this  way 
for  two  years.  Then  one  fine  day  she  heard  by 
chance  that  her  niece  had  died  a  few  weeks  after 
her  sister:  her  brother-in-law  had  concealed  the 
death  from  her  in  order  to  have  a  hold  upon  her, 
and  to  attract  her  with  her  little  savings  to  Africa. 
At  this  revelation  Germinie  lost  all  her  illusion, 
and  was  cured  at  a  single  stroke.  She  scarcely 
remembered  that  she  had  wished  to  go. 


C683 


VII 


ABOUT  this  time  a  small  dairy  with  no  custom 
at  the  end  of  the  street  changed  hands  in 
consequence  of  a  sale  of  the  business  by  a 
judicial  decree.  The  shop  was  restored.  It  was 
repainted.  The  front  windows  were  adorned  with 
inscriptions  in  yellow  letters.  Pyramids  of  the 
Colonial  Company's  chocolate,  and  flowered  bowls 
of  coffee,  with  little  liqueur  glasses  at  intervals, 
furnished  the  shelves  in  the  window.  At  the  door 
shone  the  sign  of  a  copper  milk  jug  intersected 
in  the  middle. 

The  new  dairy-woman,  who  was  trying  to 
revive  the  establishment  in  this  way,  was  a  per- 
son of  fifty  years  of  age,  brimming  over  with  cor- 
pulence and  still  preserving  some  remnant  of  the 
beauty  that  was  half  sunken  beneath  her  fat. 
It  was  said  in  the  neighborhood  that  she  had  set 
up  with  the  money  of  an  old  gentleman,  whose 
servant  she  had  been  until  his  death  in  her  own 
part  of  the  country  near  Langres  —  for  it  hap- 
pened that  she  was  Germinie's  fellow-country- 
woman, belonging  not  to  the  same  village,  but 
to  a  small  place  beside  it,  and  without  having 
ever  met  or  seen  each  other,  she  and  Mademoiselle 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

de  Varandcuil's  maid  knew  each  other  by  name, 
and  were  linked  together  by  common  acquaintances 
and  by  memories  of  the  same  place. 

The  big  woman  was  complimentary,  mealy- 
mouthed,  caressing.  She  said:  "My  sweet"  to 
everybody,  spoke  in  a  small  voice,  and  played 
the  child  with  the  doleful  languor  characteristic 
of  corpulent  people.  She  detested  big  words, 
she  blushed  and  was  scared  at  a  trifle.  She  loved 
secrets,  made  everything  a  matter  of  confidence, 
talked  gossip,  and  always  spoke  in  your  ear. 
Her  life  was  spent  in  tattling  and  lamentation. 
She  pitied  others,  she  pitied  herself;  she  be- 
wailed her  misfortunes  and  her  stomach.  When 
she  ate  too  much  she  would  say  dramatically: 
"I  am  going  to  die."  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  pathetic  than  her  fits  of  indigestion.  Her 
nature  was  one  that  was  perpetually  moved  and 
tearful;  she  wept  indifferently  for  a  beaten  horse, 
for  a  deceased  acquaintance,  or  for  soured  milk. 
She  wept  over  the  various  items  in  the  news- 
papers, and  she  wept  to  see  the  passengers  go  by. 

Germinie  was  quickly  beguiled  and  moved  to 
pity  by  this  wheedling,  constantly-affected  dairy- 
woman,  who  invited  the  expansiveness  of  others 
and  who  appeared  so  tender-hearted.  At  the  end 
of  three  months  scarcely  anything  went  into 
mademoiselle's  house  that  did  not  come  from 
Mother  Jupillon's  establishment.  Germinie  pro- 
vided herself  with  everything,  or  nearly  every- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

thing,  there.  She  spent  hours  in  the  shop.  Once 
there,  she  found  it  difficult  to  go  away,  she 
would  remain,  and  be  unable  to  rise.  A  mechani- 
cal slackness  detained  her.  She  would  go  on  talk- 
ing at  the  door,  so  as  not  to  be  gone  yet.  She  felt 
herself  attached  to  the  dairy-woman's  house  by 
the  invisible  charm  possessed  by  places  to  which 
we  constantly  return,  and  which  in  the  end  clasp 
us  like  things  that  love  us.  Then  the  shop,  for 
her,  meant  the  three  dogs,  the  three  ugly  dogs, 
that  belonged  to  Madame  Jupillon.  She  had 
them  always  on  her  knee;  she  scolded  them,  she 
kissed  them,  she  spoke  to  them;  and  when  she 
became  warm  from  their  heat,  she  would  feel  at 
the  bottom  of  her  heart  satisfaction  like  that  of 
an  animal  rubbing  itself  against  its  young.  Fur- 
ther, the  shop  meant  to  her  all  the  stories  of  the 
neighborhood,  the  meeting-place  of  gossip,  the 
news  of  a  bill  left  unpaid  by  one  or  the  carriage 
full  of  flowers  brought  to  another  —  a  place  that 
was  watchful  of  everything,  and  into  which  every- 
thing entered,  even  to  the  lace  wrapper  going  into 
town  on  the  arm  of  a  servant-maid. 

In  time,  everything  served  to  tie  her  there. 
Her  intimacy  with  the  dairy-woman  became  closer 
through  all  the  mysterious  ties  belonging  to  the 
friendships  of  the  women  of  the  people,  through 
the  continual  chattering,  the  daily  exchange  of 
the  trifles  of  life,  the  conversations  for  the  sake 
of  talking,  the  recurrence  of  the  same  "Good- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

morning"  and  "Good-evening,"  the  sharing  of 
caresses  among  the  same  animals,  the  sleeping 
side  by  side  and  chair  against  chair.  The  shop 
finally  became  a  captivating  place  to  her,  a  place 
wherein  her  thoughts,  her  speech,  her  very  limbs 
and  body,  found  marvelous  comfort.  Happiness 
with  her  came  to  be  that  time  in  the  evening 
when,  seated  drowsily  in  a  straw  arm-chair  be- 
side Mother  Jupillon  asleep  with  her  spectacles 
on  her  nose,  she  nursed  the  dogs  as  they  lay 
rolled  into  a  ball  in  the  skirt  of  her  dress;  and 
while  the  expiring  lamp  grew  dim  on  the  counter, 
she  would  remain  there,  suffering  her  gaze  to 
lose  itself  and  gently  die  away  with  her  thoughts, 
in  the  back  part  of  the  shop,  on  the  triumphal  arch 
made  of  snails'  shells  bound  together  with  old 
moss,  beneath  the  arch  of  which  there  stood  a 
little  copper  figure  of  Napoleon. 


VIII 

MADAME  JUPILLON,  who  professed  that 
she  had  been  married,  and  signed  herself 
"Widow  Jupillon,"  had  a  son.  He  was 
then  a  child.  She  had  placed  him  at  Saint- 
Nicolas,  that  great  establishment  for  religious 
education  where  for  thirty  francs  a  month  rudi- 
mentary instruction  and  a  trade  are  given  to 
children  of  the  people,  and  to  many  natural 
children  among  them.  Germinie  got  into  the 
habit  of  accompanying  Madame  Jupillon  on 
Thursdays  when  she  went  to  see  Bibi.  This 
visit  came  to  be  a  recreation  to  her,  and  some- 
thing to  be  looked  forward  to.  She  would  hurry 
the  mother,  be  the  first  to  reach  the  omnibus, 
which  she  was  well  pleased  to  enter  with  a  big 
basket  of  provisions,  upon  which  she  crossed  her 
arms  during  the  journey. 

Thereupon  Mother  Jupillon  came  to  have  a 
sore  on  her  leg,  an  anthrax,  which  prevented  her 
from  walking  for  nearly  eighteen  months.  Ger- 
minie went  to  Saint-Nicolas  alone,  and  as  she 
was  ready  and  quick  to  attach  herself  to  others, 
she  busied  herself  about  the  child  as  though  he 
were  in  some  way  connected  with  her.  She  never 

C733 


CERMINIF.     LACERTEUX 

missed  a  Thursday,  and  always  came  with  her 
hands  full  of  the  leavings  of  the  week,  cakes, 
fruits  and  sweetmeats  which  she  used  to  buy. 

She  would  kiss  the  urchin,  be  anxious  about 
his  health,  feel  whether  he  had  his  knitted  waist- 
coat under  his  blouse,  think  that  he  was  too  red 
from  running,  wipe  his  face  with  her  handker- 
chief, and  make  him  show  her  the  soles  of  his 
shoes  to  see  whether  they  had  not  holes  in  them. 
She  would  ask  him  whether  he  gave  satisfaction, 
whether  he  did  his  tasks  well,  whether  he  had 
many  good  marks.  She  spoke  to  him  of  his  mother, 
told  him  to  love  the  Lord,  and  walked  with  him  in 
the  court  until  the  two  o'clock  bell  rang,  the  child 
giving  her  his  arm  and  feeling  quite  proud  of  being 
with  a  woman  better  dressed  than  the  majority  of 
those  who  came  there,  a  woman  dressed  in  silk. 

He  wanted  to  learn  the  flageolet,  and  it  cost 
only  five  francs  a  month.  But  his  mother  would 
not  give  them  to  him.  Germinie  secretly  brought 
him  the  hundred  sous  every  month.  It  was  hu- 
miliating to  him  to  wear  the  uniform  of  his  little 
blouse  when  he  went  out  to  walk,  and  on  the  two 
or  three  occasions  in  the  year  when  he  came  to 
see  his  mother.  One  year,  on  his  birthday,  Ger- 
minie opened  up  a  big  bundle  before  him.  She 
had  had  a  tunic  made  for  him.  In  the  whole 
school  there  were  scarcely  twenty  of  his  compan- 
ions whose  families  were  sufficiently  well  off  to 
allow  them  to  wear  one. 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

She  spoiled  him  in  this  way  for  some  years, 
never  letting  him  suffer  for  the  want  of  anything, 
flattering  in  a  poor  child  'the  whims  and  vanities 
of  a  rich  one,  and  softening  for  him  the  privations 
and  hardships  of  that  professional  school  which 
trains  for  a  workman's  life,  wears  a  blouse,  eats 
from  a  plate  of  brown  crockery-ware,  and  in  its 
virile  apprenticeship  tempers  the  people  for  toil. 
Meanwhile  the  boy  was  growing  up.  Germinie 
did  not  perceive  it;  in  her  eyes  he  was  still  a 
child.  From  habit  she  always  kissed  him. 

One  day  she  was  summoned  before  the  Abbe 
who  conducted  the  school.  He  spoke  to  her  of 
sending  young  Jupillon  away.  It  was  a  matter 
of  some  bad  books  which  had  been  found  in  his 
hands.  Germinie,  trembling  at  the  thought  of 
the  blows  which  awaited  the  child  at  his  mother's 
house,  prayed,  entreated,  implored,  and  finally 
obtained  the  offender's  pardon  from  the  Abbe. 
Going  down  again,  she  tried  to  scold  Jupillon, 
but  at  the  first  word  of  her  lecture  Bibi  suddenly 
gave  her  to  her  face  a  look  and  a  smile  in  which 
remained  nothing  of  the  child  that  he  had  been 
yesterday.  She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  it  was 
she  who  blushed.  A  fortnight  passed  without 
another  visit  from  her  to  Saint-Nicolas. 


IX 


AT  the  time  when  young  Jupillon  left  school, 
the  maid-servant  of  a  kept  woman  who 
lived  below  Mademoiselle  used  sometimes  to 
come  to  spend  the  evening  at  Madame  Jupillon's 
with  Germinie.  A  native  of  that  Grand  Duchy  of 
Luxembourg,  which  provides  Paris  with  cab- 
drivers  and  waiting-maids  for  high  class  prosti- 
tutes, she  was  what  is  popularly  called  a  "great 
trollop";  she  had  the  look  of  a  mare,  the  brows 
of  a  water-carrier,  and  wanton  eyes.  She  soon 
began  to  come  every  evening.  She  paid  for  cakes 
and  glasses  of  liqueurs  for  everybody,  amused 
herself  by  making  young  Jupillon  romp,  indulged 
in  horse-play  with  him,  sat  down  upon  him, 
twitted  him  with  being  handsome,  treated  him  as 
a  child,  and  joked  him  coarsely  for  not  being  yet 
a  man.  The  young  fellow,  pleased  and  elated  by 
these  attentions  from  the  first  woman  who  ever 
took  any  notice  of  him,  soon  allowed  his  prefer- 
ence for  Adele,  as  the  new-comer  was  called,  to 
be  seen. 

Germinie  was  passionately  jealous.  Jealousy 
was  the  foundation  of  her  nature;  it  formed  the 
dregs  and  bitterness  of  her  tenderness.  She 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

wished  to  have  those  whom  she  loved  all  to  her- 
self —  to  hold  them  in  absolute  possession.  She 
required  that  they  should  love  none  but  herself. 
She  could  not  allow  them  to  divert  and  give  to 
others  the  smallest  particle  of  their  affection; 
from  the  time  that  she  had  merited  it,  this  affec- 
tion was  no  longer  theirs;  they  were  no  longer 
masters  of  its  disposal,  She  detested  the  people 
whom  her  mistress  seemed  to  receive  more  warmly 
than  the  rest,  and  to  welcome  as  intimates.  By 
her  ill-tempered  demeanor  and  cross  looks  she  had 
estranged  and  almost  driven  from  the  house  two 
or  three  of  mademoiselle's  old  friends  whose 
visits  distressed  her,  as  though  the  old  ladies  were 
coming  to  steal  something  from  the  rooms  —  to 
take  some  portion  of  her  mistress  away  from  her. 
People  whom  she  had  loved  had  become  odious 
to  her:  she  had  not  found  that  they  loved  her 
enough,  and  she  hated  them  for  all  the  love  that 
she  would  fain  have  had  from  them.  Altogether, 
her  heart  was  most  exacting  and  despotic.  Giving 
all,  she  asked  for  all.  At  the  smallest  sign  of  cool- 
ing, or  of  division  on  the  part  of  those  upon  whom 
she  had  bestowed  her  affection,  she  would  break 
out  and  prey  upon  herself,  passing  nights  in  tears, 
and  holding  the  world  in  execration. 

On  seeing  this  woman  establishing  herself  in 
the  shop,  and  growing  familiar  with  the  young 
man,  all  Germinie's  jealousies  were  roused  and 
turned  into  rage.  Her  hatred  rose  and  rebelled 

C773 


CERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

with  her  disgust  against  this  abandoned,  shame- 
less woman,  who  might  be  seen  at  table  with 
soldiers  on  Sundays  on  the  outer  Boulevards,  and 
whose  face  on  Mondays  bore  the  signs  of  her 
dissipation  on  the  previous  day.  She  did  every- 
thing to  induce  Madame  Jupillon  to  banish  her, 
but  she  was  one  of  the  best  customers  of  the  dairy, 
and  the  dairy-woman,  with  all  gentleness,  refused 
to  drive  her  away.  Germinie  had  recourse  to  the 
son,  and  told  him  she  was  an  unfortunate.  But 
this  only  served  to  attach  the  young  man  to  this 
ugly  woman,  whose  evil  reputation  flattered  him. 
Moreover,  he  had  the  cruel  mischievousness  of 
youth,  and  increased  his  amiability  towards  her, 
merely  to  see  "the  mug"  that  Germinie  made, 
and  to  enjoy  distressing  her.  Soon,  Germinie  per- 
ceived that  this  woman  had  more  serious  inten- 
tions than  she  had  at  first  imagined;  she  under- 
stood what  she  wanted  with  the  child --for  the 
young  man,  with  his  seventeen  years,  was  still  a 
child  to  her. 

From  that  time  she  dogged  their  footsteps; 
she  never  quitted  them,  she  never  left  them  alone 
for  a  moment.  She  made  one  at  their  parties,  at 
the  theatre,  and  in  the  country,  shared  all  their 
walks  —  was  always  there,  present  and  trouble- 
some, striving  to  restrain  the  servant,  and  to 
restore  her  to  modesty  with  a  whispered  word: 
"A  child!  are  you  not  ashamed?"  she  would  say 
to  her.  The  other  would  give  a  great  laugh,  as 

C783 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

though  it  were  a  good  joke.  When  they  left  the 
play,  animated,  heated  by  the  fever  of  the  per- 
formance and  the  excitement  of  the  theatre,  or 
when  they  were  returning  from  the  country, 
charged  with  a  whole  day's  sunshine,  intoxicated 
by  the  sky  and  open  air,  lashed  by  the  wine  at 
dinner,  and  indulging  in  such  playfulness  and 
freedom  as  are  encouraged  at  night  by  the  exalta- 
tions of  pleasure,  by  the  feasted  joyousness  and 
the  mirthful  senses  of  the  woman  of  the  people, 
Germinie  sought  to  be  ever  between  Jupillon  and 
the  maid.  She  tried  every  moment  to  break  their 
arm-linked  amours,  to  untie  them,  to  uncouple 
them.  Unweariedly  would  she  separate  them, 
and  withdraw  them  continually  from  each  other. 
She  would  place  her  own  person  between  those 
two  who  sought  to  be  together.  She  would  glide 
between  the  gestures  which  sought  for  mutual 
contact;  she  would  glide  between  those  presented 
lips  and  offered  mouths. 

But  she  was  herself  touched  and  stricken  by 
all  that  she  prevented.  She  could  feel  the  brushing 
of  the  hands  that  she  separated,  of  the  caresses 
which  she  checked  midway,  and  which  were  de- 
luded in  straying  upon  herself.  The  sigh  and 
breathing  of  the  kisses  that  she  parted  would 
pass  across  her  cheek.  Without  wishing  it,  and 
disturbed  by  a  certain  horror,  she  mingled  in 
embraces  and  partook  of  desires  in  the  friction 
and  struggle  which  were  every  day  diminishing 

C793 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

about  her  person  the   young   man's   respect   and 
reserve. 

It  happened  one  day  that  she  was  not  so  strong 
against  herself  as  she  had  hitherto  been.  This 
time  she  did  not  shrink  so  abruptly  from  his  ad- 
vances. Jupillon  felt  that  she  was  hesitating. 
Germinie  felt  it  better  than  he  did;  but  she  had 
exhausted  effort  and  torment,  and  was  worn  out 
with  suffering.  The  love  that  the  other  woman 
had  felt,  which  she  had  turned  away  from  Jupillon, 
had  slowly  entered  into  her  own  heart.  Now  it 
was  buried  there,  and  bleeding  with  jealousy,  she 
found  herself  weakened,  unresisting,  swooning 
like  one  mortally  \vounded  in  presence  of  the 
happiness  that  was  coming  to  her. 

Nevertheless,  she  repelled  the  attempts,  the 
liberties  of  the  young  man,  without  saying  any- 
thing, without  speaking.  She  did  not  dream  of 
belonging  to  him  in  another  fashion,  or  of  sur- 
rendering herself  more  fully.  She  lived  on  the 
thoughts  of  love,  believing  that  she  would  always 
do  so,  and  in  the  rapture  which  uplifted  her  soul, 
she  drove  away  her  fall  and  repulsed  her  senses. 
She  continued  quivering  and  pure  —  absorbed 
and  suspended  in  abysses  of  tenderness,  tasting 
and  desiring  nothing  of  her  lover  but  his  caress, 
as  though  her  heart  had  been  formed  only  for  the 
sweetness  of  kisses. 


X 


THIS  happy  and  unsatisfied  love  produced  a 
singular  physiological  phenomenon  in  Ger- 
minie's  physical  being.  It  appeared  as 
though  the  passion  circulating  within  her  renewed 
and  transformed  her  lymphatic  temperament.  She 
no  longer  seemed  to  draw  life,  as  formerly,  drop  by 
drop,  from  a  miserly  spring;  a  full  and  generous 
force  flowed  in  her  veins;  the  fire  of  a  rich  blood 
coursed  through  her  body.  She  felt  herself  filled 
with  warm  health,  and  the  joys  of  existence  swept 
through  her,  beating  their  wings  within  her  breast 
like  birds  in  the  sunshine. 

A  marvellous  animation  had  come  to  her.  The 
miserable,  nervous  energy  which  had  sustained 
her,  had  given  place  to  a  healthy  activity,  to  a 
clamorous,  moving,  overflowing  liveliness.  She 
knew  her  former  weaknesses  no  more,  her  depres- 
sion, her  prostration,  her  drowsiness,  her  nerveless 
indolence.  Her  mornings  once  so  heavy  and  tor- 
pid were  now  brisk,  bright  awakenings  opening 
up  in  an  instant  to  the  cheerfulness  of  the  day. 
She  dressed  herself  playfully,  and  in  haste;  her 
nimble  fingers  moved  of  their  own  accord,  and  she 
was  astonished  at  being  so  brisk,  so  full  of  spirits 


GERMIN1E    LACERTEUX 

during  those  fainting  hours  in  the  early  morning, 
when  she  had  formerly  so  often  felt  her  heart  upon 
her  lips.  And  throughout  the  day  there  was  with 
her  the  same  bodily  good-humor,  the  same  cheer- 
fulness of  movement.  She  must  be  constantly 
going,  walking,  moving,  working,  spending  her- 
self. At  times,  what  she  had  lived  through  ap- 
peared to  her  to  be  extinguished,  the  natural  sen- 
sations which  she  had  hitherto  experienced  shrank 
from  her  into  the  remoteness  of  a  dream,  or  the 
depth  of  a  slumbering  recollection.  The  past  was 
behind  her,  as  though  she  had  passed  through  it 
beneath  the  veil  of  a  fainting-fit,  and  with  the 
unconsciousness  of  a  somnambulist.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  she  experienced  the  feeling,  the 
impression  at  once  harsh  and  soft,  violent  and 
divine,  of  the  play  of  life  breaking  forth  in  its 
plenitude,  its  regularity  and  its  power. 

She  went  up  and  down  stairs  for  a  trifle.  At  a 
word  from  Mademoiselle  she  would  clatter  down 
the  five  flights.  When  she  was  seated,  her  feet 
danced  upon  the  floor.  She  scrubbed,  cleaned, 
arranged,  beat,  shook,  washed  without  rest  or 
truce,  and  was  always  at  work,  filling  the  rooms 
with  her  coming  and  going,  and  the  incessant 
bustle  of  her  person. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  her  mistress,  when  deaf- 
ened as  by  the  noise  of  a  child,  "Germinie!  how 
you  do  turn  things  upside  down,  don't  you?" 

One    day    on    going    into    Germinie's    kitchen, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Mademoiselle  saw  a  little,  earth  in  a  cigar-box 
standing  in  the  sink. 

"What  is  that?"  she  said  to  her. 

"It  is  some  grass  that  I  have  planted  to  look 
at,"  said  Germinie. 

"So  you  have  grown  fond  of  grass,  have  you? 
AH  you  want  now  is  to  have  some  canaries!" 


XI 


AFTER  a  few  months,  Germinie's  life,  her 
entire  life,  belonged  to  the  dairy-woman. 
Mademoiselle's  service  was  not  very  re- 
strictive and  took  up  very  little  of  her  time.  A 
whiting,  a  cutlet,  and  there  was  nothing  further 
to  cook.  In  the  evening,  Mademoiselle  might 
have  kept  her  with  her  for  company,  but  she  pre- 
ferred to  send  her  to  walk,  to  turn  her  out, 
make  her  take  a  little  air  and  recreation.  She 
only  required  her  to  be  back  at  ten  o'clock  to 
assist  her  when  going  to  bed,  and  she  would  even 
undress  herself  and  go  to  bed  very  well  alone  when 
Germinie  was  late.  All  the  hours  which  her  mis- 
tress left  her,  Germinie  came  to  live  through  and 
spend  in  the  shop.  She  used  now  to  go  down  to 
the  dairy  in  the  morning  at  the  taking  down  of 
the  shutters,  which  most  frequently  she  brought 
in  herself,  have  her  coffee  and  milk,  remain  until 
nine  o'clock,  go  up  again  for  Mademoiselle's  choc- 
olate, and  find  means  to  return  two  or  three 
times  between  breakfast  and  dinner,  lingering, 
and  talking  in  the  back-shop  for  the  smallest 
errand. 

"What  a  chatter-box  you  are!"    Mademoiselle 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

would  say  to  her,  with  a  scolding  voice  and  a 
smiling  look. 

At  half-past  five,  when  the  little  dinner  had  been 
cleared  away,  she  would  go  down  the  stairs  four 
at  a  time,  establish  herself  at  Mother  Jupillon's, 
wait  there  for  ten  o'clock,  climb  the  five  stories 
again,  and  in  five  minutes  undress  her  mistress, 
who,  while  acquiescing,  would  be  somewhat  as- 
tonished at  seeing  her  in  such  a  hurry  to  go  to 
bed.  She  could  recall  the  time  when  Germinie 
had  a  passion  for  sleeping  in  one  easy-chair  after 
another,  and  was  never  willing  to  go  up  to  her 
room.  The  extinguished  candle  on  Mademoiselle's 
night-table  was  still  smoking  when  Germinie  again 
found  herself  at  the  dairy-woman's,  this  time  to 
remain  until  twelve  or  one  o'clock.  Often  she 
left  only  when  a  policeman,  seeing  the  light, 
knocked  at  the  shutters  and  obliged  them  to 
close. 

That  she  might  be  always  there,  and  have  the 
right  of  being  there,  that  she  might  incrust  her- 
self in  this  shop,  and  never  take  her  eyes  off  the 
man  of  her  love,  but  brood  over  him,  and  look  after 
him  and  keep  company  with  him,  she  became  the 
servant  of  the  house.  She  swept  the  shop,  did 
the  cooking  for  the  mother,  and  made  the  porridge 
for  the  dogs.  She  waited  on  the  son,  she  made  his 
bed,  she  brushed  his  clothes,  she  polished  his  shoes, 
happy  and  proud  to  touch  what  he  had  touched, 
moved  to  lay  her  hand  where  he  had  laid  his  body, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ready  to  kiss  the  mud  that  came  from  him  on  the 
leather  of  his  boots! 

She  did  the  work,  she  kept  shop,  she  served  the 
customers,  Madame  Jupillon  relying  for  every- 
thing upon  her;  and  while  the  brave  girl  was 
working  and  sweating,  the  big  woman,  assuming 
majestic  and  lady-like  leisure  at  her  door,  stranded 
on  a  chair  across  the  pavement,  and  inhaling  the 
freshness  of  the  street,  fingered  the  delicious  money 
of  her  profits  again  and  again  in  the  shopkeeper's 
pocket  beneath  her  apron,  the  money  which  comes 
from  selling,  and  which  sounds  so  sweet  in  the  ear 
of  the  petty  tradespeople  of  Paris  that  the  retired 
shopkeeper  is  at  first  quite  melancholy  at  no  longer 
having  it  jingling  and  fidgeting  beneath  his  fingers. 


XII 


WHEN  the  spring  had  come,  Germinie  would 
say  almost  every  evening  to  Jupillon: 

"Suppose  we  were  to  go   to   the   begin- 
ning of  the  fields?*' 

Jupillon  would  put  on  his  red  and  black  checked 
flannel  shirt,  and  his  black  velvet  cap,  and  they 
would  set  out  for  what  the  people  of  the  neighbor- 
hood called  "the  beginning  of  the  fields." 

They  went  up  the  Clignancourt  Road,  and  with 
the  tide  of  suburban  Parisians  hastening  on  their 
way  to  drink  in  a  little  air,  walked  towards  that 
great  stretch  of  sky  which  rose  straight  from  the 
pavement  between  the  two  rows  of  houses  on  the 
top  of  the  ascent,  and  showed  quite  clear  when  an 
omnibus  was  not  passing  out  of  it.  The  heat  sub- 
sided, the  houses  had  no  longer  any  sun  except 
on  the  ridges  of  the  roofs  and  the  chimneys.  As 
from  a  great  door  opening  upon  the  country,  there 
came  from  the  end  of  the  street  and  from  the  sky 
a  breath  of  space  and  freedom. 

At  the  Chateau-Rouge  they  came  across  the 
first  tree  and  the  first  leaves.  Then,  in  the  Rue 
du  Chateau,  the  horizon  opened  up  before  them 
in  dazzling  sweetness.  The  country  stretched 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

gleaming  and  indefinite  in  the  distance,  lost  in 
the  golden  dust  of  seven  o'clock.  Everything 
quivered  in  the  powder  of  light,  which  the  light 
leaves  behind  it  on  the  verdure  which  it  effaces, 
and  on  the  houses  which  it  colors  rose. 

They  descended,  following  the  pavement  black- 
ened with  games  of  hop-scotch,  past  long  walls 
over  which  a  branch  hung  here  and  there,  past 
lines  of  houses,  broken  and  interspaced  with 
gardens;  to  their  left  rose  tree- tops  filled  with 
light,  clusters  of  leaves  pierced  by  the  setting  sun 
which  traced  stripes  of  fire  on  the  bars  of  the  iron 
gratings.  After  the  gardens,  they  passed  the 
palings,  the  enclosures  for  sale,  the  buildings 
raised  by  anticipation  in  the  newly-planned  streets 
and  now  presenting  the  toothing  at  the  sides  to 
empty  space,  the  walls  covered  at  foot  with  heaps 
of  bottle-ends,  the  large  smooth-plastered  houses 
with  windows  encumbered  by  cages  and  linen, 
and  with  the  Y  of  a  plumb-line  on  every  story, 
the  entrances  to  plots  of  ground  looking  like  farm- 
yards, with  little  hillocks  in  them  browsed  over 
by  goats. 

Here  and  there  they  stopped  and  smelled  the 
flowers,  the  scent  of  some  sorry  lilac  growing  in  a 
narrow  yard.  Germinie  would  pluck  a  leaf  as  she 
passed,  and  nibble  it. 

The  mad,  merry,  circular  flight  of  swallows  re- 
volved and  grew  complicated  over  her  head.  The 
birds  called  to  one  another.  The  sky  answered 

£881] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  cages.  She  could  hear  everything  singing 
around  her,  and  with  happy  eyes  she  watched  the 
women  at  the  windows  in  their  dressing-jackets, 
the  men  in  the  little  gardens  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
the  mothers  on  the  door-steps  with  little  brats 
between  their  knees. 

The  descent  came  to  an  end,  the  pavement 
ceased,  the  street  was  succeeded  by  a  broad,  white, 
chalky,  dusty  road,  formed  of  rubbish,  fragments 
of  plaster,  and  crumbled  lime  and  brick,  and 
broken  up  and  furrowed  by  ruts  with  shining  edges, 
made  by  the  iron  on  big  wheels,  and  the  crushing 
of  carts  laden  with  free-stone.  Then  began  that 
which  comes  when  Paris  ends,  and  which  grows 
where  grass  will  not  grow,  one  of  those  arid  land- 
scapes which  great  towns  create  around  them, 
that  first  zone  of  suburb  intra  muros,  where  nature 
is  withered,  the  earth  worn  out,  and  the  country 
strewn  with  oyster-shells.  There  was  now  nothing 
but  half-enclosed  plots,  showing  carts  and  drays 
with  the  shafts  pointing  skywards  in  the  air,  yards 
for  the  sawing  of  stone,  planking  works,  work- 
men's houses  in  process  of  construction,  full  of 
gaps  and  openings  and  bearing  the  masons'  flag, 
wastes  of  grey  and  white  sand,  and  market- 
gardens  marked  out  with  the  line,  beyond  the 
ditches  towards  which  the  embankment  of  the 
road  sloped  in  streams  of  pebbles. 

Soon  came  the  last  street  lamp,  hanging  to  a 
green  post.  People  were  constantly  going  and 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

coming.  The  road  was  alive,  and  it  amused  the 
eye.  Germinie  met  women  carrying  their  hus- 
bands' sticks,  girls  of  easy  virtue  in  silk  on  the 
arms  of  their  brothers  in  blouses,  and  old  women 
in  Madras  handkerchiefs,  resting  after  work,  and 
walking  with  folded  arms.  There  were  working 
men  drawing  their  children  in  little  carriages, 
urchins,  with  their  lines,  coming  back  from  fishing 
at  Saint-Ouen,  and  people  trailing  branches  of 
flowering  acacia  at  the  end  of  a  stick. 

Sometimes  a  pregnant  woman  would  pass  hold- 
ing out  her  arms  before  her  to  a  tiny  child,  and 
casting  the  shadow  of  her  pregnancy  upon  the 
wall. 

All  walked  quietly,  happily,  with  steps  that 
liked  to  linger,  with  the  cheerful  lounging  and  the 
happy  laziness  of  a  stroll.  No  one  was  in  a  hurry, 
and  the  groups  of  promenaders  formed  in  the 
distance  dark  and  nearly  motionless  spots  on  the 
perfectly  level  horizon,  which  every  now  and  then 
was  traversed  by  the  white  smoke  of  a  railway 
train. 

They  would  come  to  the  back  of  Montmartre 
to  the  kind  of  large  ditches,  the  sloping  beds 
crossed  by  grey  and  trodden  paths.  There  was 
a  little  grass  there,  frizzled  and  yellowed  by  the 
sun  which  all  aflame  might  be  seen  setting  be- 
tween the  houses.  And  Germinie  loved  to  meet 
with  the  mattress-carders  at  work,  the  knacker's 
horses  grazing  on  the  bare  ground,  the  madder 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

trousers  of  the  soldiers  playing  at  bowls,  or  the  child- 
ren flying  a  dark  kite  in  the  clear  sky.  Then,  in 
order  to  cross  the  railway  bridge,  they  turned  down 
through  that  evil  encampment  of  rag-pickers,  the 
stonemasons'  district  below  Clignancourt.  They 
passed  quickly  by  the  houses  built  of  stolen 
materials,  and  reeking  with  the  horrors  that  they 
concealed;  these  hovels  —  a  cross  between  a 
cabin  and  a  burrow  —  terrified  Germinie  vaguely; 
she  could  feel  crouching  within  them  all  the  horrors 
of  Night. 

But  at  the  fortifications  her  pleasure  returned. 
She  hastened  to  sit  down  with  Jupillon  on  the 
slope.  Close  to  her  were  families  in  groups,  work- 
men lying  flat  on  their  faces,  middle-class  folk 
scanning  the  horizon  with  telescopes,  and  philos- 
ophers in  misery,  leaning  with  both  hands  upon 
their  knees,  and  wearing  coats  greasy  with  old 
age,  and  black  hats  as  red  as  their  beards.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  sounds  of  organ-playing. 
Below  her,  in  the  moat,  were  parties  playing  at 
puss  in  the  corner.  Before  her  eyes  she  had  a 
motley  crowd  —  white  blouses,  blue  aprons  on 
children  running  about,  a  revolving  ring  game, 
cafes,  wine-shops,  stalls  for  fried  fish,  games  for 
macaroons,  shooting-galleries  half  hidden  in  a 
cluster  of  verdure  from  which  rose  masts  with 
tri-colored  pendants;  while  further  off,  in  a  vapor, 
in  a  bluish  mist,  a  line  of  tree-tops  marked  the 
course  of  a  road.  On  the  right  she  could  see 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Saint-Denis  and  the  great  structure  of  its  basilica; 
on  the  left,  above  a  line  of  vanishing  houses,  the 
disc  of  the  sun  setting  over  Saint-Ouen  was  of 
cherry-colored  fire,  letting  fall  to  the  lower  part 
of  the  sky  as  it  were  red  pillars  which  upbore  him 
trembling.  And  often  this  splendor  was  crossed 
for  a  moment  by  the  ball  of  a  child  at  play. 

They  would  go  down  through  the  gate,  pass  the 
shops  for  Lorraine  sausages,  the  cake-sellers,  the 
boarded  wine-shops,  the  greenless  arbors  of  wood 
that  was  still  white  wherein  a  medley  of  men, 
women,  and  children  were  eating  fried  potatoes, 
mussels,  and  shrimps,  and  so  would  come  to  the 
first  field  and  the  first  living  grass.  At  the 
edge  of  the  grass  stood  a  hand-cart  laden  with 
gingerbread  and  peppermint  lozenges;  and  a  woman 
sold  licorice-water  on  a  table  in  the  furrow.  A 
strange  landscape  in  which  there  was  a  complete 
mixture  —  the  smoke  of  frying  and  the  evening 
mist,  the  noise  of  games  and  the  silence  shed  from 
heaven,  the  odor  of  powdered  dung  and  the  smell 
of  the  green  corn,  the  barrier  and  the  idyll,  the 
Fair  and  Nature!  Germinie  enjoyed  it  neverthe- 
less; and  urging  Jupillon  to  go  further,  she  would 
walk  on  the  very  edge  of  the  road,  thrusting  her 
legs  into  the  corn  as  she  went,  in  order  to  feel  its 
tickling  freshness  upon  her  stockings. 

When  they  were  returning  she  liked  to  re-ascend 
the  slope.  The  sunshine  was  gone.  The  sky  was 
grey  below,  pink  in  the  middle,  and  bluish  over- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

head.  The  horizon  was  growing  black,  the  green- 
ness was  deepening  and  darkening,  the  zinc  roofs 
of  the  wine-shops  were  reflecting  the  moonlight, 
fires  were  beginning  to  dot  the  shadow,  the  crowd 
was  becoming  greyish,  and  the  whiteness  of  linen 
blue.  Everything  was  being  gradually  obliterated, 
blurred,  and  lost  in  a  colorless  and  expiring  residue 
of  daylight,  and  thickening  shadows  began  to  creep 
up  amid  the  din  of  rattles,  the  noise  of  a  crowd 
growing  animated  by  the  night,  and  of  wine 
prompting  to  sing.  The  tops  of  the  tall  grass  on 
the  slope  were  swaying  and  bending  in  the  breeze. 
Then  Germinie  made  up  her  mind  to  leave.  She 
would  return,  filled  with  the  falling  night,  giving 
herself  up  to  the  uncertain  vision  of  things  half- 
seen,  passing  the  unlighted  houses,  again  seeing 
everything  on  her  way  as  though  it  were  grown 
pale,  wearied  by  the  road  that  was  hard  to  her 
feet,  content  to  be  weary,  slow,  tired,  half-faint- 
ing, and  feeling  full  of  satisfaction. 

At  the  first  lighted  lamps  in  the  Rue  du  Chateau, 
she  fell  to  the  pavement  from  a  dream. 


XIII 

MADAME  JUPILLON  wore  a  look  full  of 
happiness  when  she  saw  Germinie,  and 
kissed  her  with  effusiveness,  and  spoke 
to  her  with  endearments  of  voice,  and  looked  at 
her  with  sweetness  of  expression.  The  huge 
woman's  kindness  seemed,  in  her  case,  to  find 
vent  in  emotion,  and  tenderness,  and  confidence 
of  a  maternal  description.  To  Germinie  she  con- 
fided her  shop  accounts,  her  woman's  secrets,  the 
most  intimate  recesses  of  her  life.  She  seemed  to 
devote  herself  to  her  as  to  a  person  of  her  own 
blood  in  process  of  initiation  into  family  interests. 
When  she  spoke  of  the  future,  Germinie  was  always 
mentioned  as  some  one  from  whom  she  was  never 
to  be  separated,  and  who  formed  part  of  the  house- 
hold. Often  she  would  let  certain  discreet  and 
mysterious  smiles  escape  her,  smiles  seeming  to 
indicate  that  everything  was  seen  and  without 
displeasure.  Sometimes,  also,  when  her  son  was 
seated  beside  Germinie,  she  would  suddenly  fasten 
moistening,  motherly  eyes  upon  them,  and  em- 
brace the  couple  in  a  look  which  seemed  to  bring 
together  and  bless  the  heads  of  her  two  children. 
Without  ever  speaking,  without  uttering  a  word 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

that  might  constitute  an  engagement,  without 
opening  her  mind  and  binding 'herself,  and  while 
continuing  to  repeat  that  her  son  was  still  very 
young  to  enter  upon  housekeeping,  she  en- 
couraged Germinie's  hopes  and  illusions  by  the 
attitude  of  her  entire  person,  by  her  airs  of  secret 
indulgence  and  complicity  of  heart,  and  by  those 
intervals  of  silence  in  which  she  seemed  to  open 
to  her  a  mother-in-law's  arms.  And  displaying 
all  her  talents  for  falseness,  employing  her  mines 
of  sentiment,  her  ingenuous  artfulness,  and  that 
easy,  intricate  deceit  which  is  characteristic  of 
fat  people,  the  big  woman  succeeded  through 
the  assurance,  the  tacit  promise  of  marriage,  in 
overcoming  all  resistance  on  the  part  of  Germinie, 
who  finally  suffered  the  young  man's  ardor  to 
snatch  from  her  what  she  believed  she  was  giving 
in  advance  to  her  husband's  love. 

Throughout  this  game  the  dairy-woman  had 
been  desirous  of  only  one  thing:  of  attaching  to 
herself  and  keeping  a  servant  who  cost  her 
nothing. 


XIV 

AS  Germinie  was  going  one  day   down   the 
back  staircase,   she  heard  a  voice  calling 
over  the  banisters,  and  Adele  shouting  to 
her  to  bring  her  up  two  sous'  worth  of  butter  and 
ten  of  absinthe. 

"Now  indeed  you  shall  sit  down  for  a  minute," 
said  Adele  to  her  when  she  brought  her  back  the 
absinthe  and  the  butter.  "And  you  have  given 
up  coming  in  here,  you  are  never  to  be  seen  now. 
Come!  you  have  plenty  of  time  for  being  with 
your  old  woman.  /  could  not  live  with  such  a 
figure-head  of  antichrist  as  that!  Do  stay. 
There's  no  work  to  be  done  here  to-day.  There's 
no  money,  and  Madame  is  in  bed.  Whenever 
there's  no  money  she  goes  to  bed,  does  Madame, 
and  she  stays  there  reading  novels  the  whole  day. 
Will  you  have  some?"  and  she  offered  her  the 
glass  of  absinthe.  "No?  Oh,  of  course,  you 
don't  drink.  It's  funny  not  to  drink.  You  are 
wrong.  Look  here:  it  would  be  very  kind  of  you 
to  write  me  a  line  to  my  sweetheart,  Labourieux, 
you  know;  I  have  spoken  to  you  about  him. 
See,  here  is  Madame's  pen  and  some  of  her  paper; 
it's  got  a  nice  scent.  D'ye  take  me?  He's  a 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

trump,  my  dear,  is  that  man!  He's  in  the  butch- 
ery, as  I  have  told  you.  My  word,  it  doesn't 
do  to  contradict  him!  When  he  has  just  drunk 
a  glass  of  blood  after  killing  his  beasts,  he's  like 
a  madman,  and  if  you  make  him  obstinate  —  well, 
he  does  hit  out.  But  what  would  you  have?  It's 
because  he's  strong  that  he's  like  that.  You 
ought  to  see  him  hitting  himself  blows  on  the  chest 
hard  enough  to  kill  an  ox,  and  saying  to  you: 
'This  is  a  wall!'  Ah,  he  is  a  fine  fellow,  he  is! 
Take  pains  with  his  letter,  won't  you?  Make  it 
fetch  him.  Say  nice  things  to  him,  you  know,  and 
rather  sad.  He  delights  in  that.  At  the  theatre 
he  likes  nothing  but  what  makes  everybody  cry. 
See!  imagine  that  it's  yourself  writing  to  a  lover." 

Germinie  began  to  write. 

"I  say,  Germinie!  Don't  you  know?  It's  a 
queer  notion  Madame  has  taken  into  her  head. 
How  curious  it  is  in  women  like  that,  who  can  go 
in  for  the  grandest  things,  and  can  have  every- 
thing, and  marry  kings  if  it  suits  them!  And 
there's  no  mistake  about  it  when  one  is  like 
Madame,  with  a  face  and  figure  like  hers.  And 
then  with  the  nicknacks  that  they  cover  them- 
selves with,  and  all  their  paraphernalia  of  dresses, 
and  lace  everywhere,  and  everything,  how  can 
anybody  be  expected  to  resist  them?  And  if  it's 
not  a  gentleman,  but  some  one  like  ourselves,  you 
may  imagine  how  that  turns  his  head  all  the  more. 
A  woman  in  velvet  is  what'II  upset  his  brain. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Yes,  my  dear,  just  think  if  Madame  hasn't  gone 
cracked  about  that  boy  Jupillon!  That's  all  was 
wanted  to  make  us  die  of  starvation  here!" 

Germinie,  with  her  pen  raised  above  the  letter 
which  she  had  begun,  was  looking  at  Adele  and 
devouring  her  with  her  eyes. 

"That's  a  staggerer,  isn't  it?"  said  Adele, 
smacking  her  lips  and  sipping  the  absinthe  in 
small  mouthfuls,  her  eyes  lit  up  with  joy  at  seeing 
Germinie's  wry  face.  "Ah!  the  fact  is,  it's  funny; 
but  as  for  truth,  I'll  guarantee  it's  being  true. 
She  noticed  the  fellow  on  the  door-step  of  the  shop 
the  other  day  as  she  was  coming  back  from  the 
races.  She  has  gone  in  two  or  three  times  under 
pretence  of  buying  something.  She  is  to  have 
some  perfumery  brought  to  her,  to-morrow,  I 
believe.  But  no  matter;  that's  their  own  look- 
out, isn't  it?  Now  then,  my  letter?  You're 
annoyed  at  what  I  have  told  you?  You  used  to 
do  the  prude,  so  I  didn't  know.  Oh-h-h!  so,  that's 
it  —  now  I  understand  what  you  were  telling  me 
about  the  youngster.  I  can  quite  believe  now 
that  you  didn't  want  him  touched!  Sly  creature!" 

And  at  a  gesture  of  denial  from  Germinie: 

"Tut!  tut!"  Adele  went  on.  "What  is  it  to 
me?  A  child  fresh  from  his  mother's  milk? 
Thanks!  that's  not  my  sort.  However,  that's 
your  own  business.  Now  let's  see  about  my 
letter,  eh?" 

Germinie  bent  over  the  sheet  of  paper.     But 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

she  was  in  a  fever;  her  nervous  fingers  made  the 
pen  splutter. 

"Look  here,"  she  said,  throwing  it  down,  after 
a  few  moments:  "I  don't  know  what's  wrong 
with  me  to-day.  I'll  write  it  for  you  another 
time." 

Just  as  you  like,  my  girl,  but  I  rely  upon  you. 
Come  to-morrow  then,  and  I'll  tell  you  about 
Madame's  fooleries.  We'll  have  a  good  laugh!" 

And  when  the  door  was  shut,  Adele  burst  out 
laughing;  it  had  cost  her  nothing  but  a  little 
humbug  to  get  hold  of  Germinie's  secret. 


XV 


WITH  young  Jupillon,  love  had  been  nothing 
but  the  satisfaction  of  a  certain  curiosity 
in  evil  which  sought  in  the  knowledge  and 
possession  of  a  woman  for  the  right  and  pleasure  of 
despising  her.  This  man,  on  emerging  from  child- 
hood, had  brought  no  ardor  or  fire  to  his  first 
liaison,  but  the  cold,  blackguardly  instincts  which 
are  awakened  in  children  by  bad  books,  the  con- 
fidences of  companions,  the  conversations  of  a 
boarding-school,  the  first  breath  of  impurity  de- 
flowering desire.  All  that  a  young  man  throws 
around  the  woman  who  yields  to  him,  all  that  he 
veils  her  with,  caresses,  loving  words,  imaginings 
of  tenderness,  these  had  no  existence  whatever  for 
Jupillon.  Woman  was  to  him  nothing  but  an 
obscene  image;  and  a  woman's  passion  appeared 
to  him  merely  to  be  something  forbidden,  illicit, 
coarse,  indecent,  funny,  something  excellent  for 
disillusion  and  irony. 

Irony  --  the  base,  cowardly,  wicked  irony  which 
belongs  to  the  lowest  of  the  people  —  was  this 
fellow's  entire  nature.  He  embodied  the  type 
of  those  Parisians  who  wear  on  their  faces  the 
chaffing  skepticism  of  that  great  city  of  hum- 

C  ioo  3 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

bug  in  which  they  were  born.  Smiles  —  the  wit 
and  malice  of  the  Parisian  physiognomy -- were 
with  him  always  mocking  and  impertinent.  Jupil- 
lon  had  the  mirthfulness  of  a  wicked  mouth  with 
what  was  almost  cruelty  at  the  two  corners  of 
upturned  lips  that  quivered  with  nervous  move- 
ment. On  his  face,  which  was  pale  with  such  pale- 
ness as  is  imparted  to  the  complexion  by  the  bit- 
ing of  aqua  fortis  on  copper,  on  his  small,  sharp, 
decided,  impudent  features  were  mingled  bluster, 
energy,  heedlessness,  intelligence,  impudence  — 
all  kinds  of  rascally  expressions  which  in  him  were 
softened  down  at  certain  times  by  a  look  of  feline 
cunning 

His  trade  as  a  glove-cutter  —  he  had  kept  to 
glove-making  after  two  or  three  unfortunate  at- 
tempts in  various  apprenticeships  —  his  habit  of 
working  in  the  shop-window  and  of  being  a  spec- 
tacle for  passers-by  had  imparted  to  his  whole 
person  the  self-possession  and  elegance  of  an  atti- 
tudinizer.  In  the  workshop  looking  upon  the 
street,  dressed  in  his  white  shirt,  his  little  black 
"Colin"  tie,  and  his  tight  waisted  trousers,  he 
had  learnt  the  affectations,  the  pretensions  in 
dress,  and  the  "mob"  graces  of  the  workman 
who  is  an  object  of  attention.  And  his  doubtful 
elegancies  —  the  parting  down  the  middle,  the 
hair  over  the  temples,  the  low  shirt-collars  dis- 
closing the  entire  neck,  the  straining  after  fem- 
inine appearances  and  affectations  —  gave  him 


CERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

an  uncertain  figure  which  was  rendered  more  am- 
biguous by  his  beardless  face  with  its  merest 
shading  of  two  little  pencils  of  moustache,  and 
his  sexless  features,  to  which  passion  and  anger 
imparted  all  that  is  bad  in  the  wicked  little  face 
of  a  woman.  But  to  Germinie  all  these  airs  and 
this  style  on  the  part  of  Jupillon  implied  distinc- 
tion. 

Constituted  in  this  way,  having  nothing  within 
him  that  could  love,  and  incapable  of  being 
attached  even  through  his  senses,  Jupillon  found 
himself  quite  embarrassed  and  wearied  by  a  wor- 
ship which  grew  intoxicated  with  itself  and  whose 
frenzy  went  on  continually  increasing.  Germinie 
was  overwhelming  him.  He  thought  her  ridicu- 
lous in  humiliation,  and  comical  in  devotion. 
He  was  tired,  disgusted,  sick  of  her.  He  had  had 
enough  of  her  love,  enough  of  her  person.  He 
fled  from  her.  He  made  his  escape  to  meet  his 
friends.  He  alleged  accidents,  business  to  be  gone 
about,  work  that  was  pressing.  In  the  evening, 
she  waited  and  he  did  not  come;  she  thought 
that  he  was  busy,  and  he  was  in  some  obscure 
billiard  room,  or  at  some  barrier  ball. 


XVI 

/•^ 

THERE  was  a  ball  one  Thursday  at  the 
"Boule  Noire,"  and  dancing  was  going  on. 
The  room  had  the  modern  character  of  the 
pleasure  resorts  of  the  people.  It  glittered  with 
false  riches  and  poor  luxury.  There  were  the  sort 
of  paintings  and  tables  which  one  sees  in  wine- 
shops, gilded  gas-apparatus  and  glasses  for  drink- 
ing a  quartern  of  brandy,  velvet  and  wooden 
benches,  the  wretchedness  and  rusticity  of  a 
country  inn  amid  the  embellishments  of  a  palace 
of  cardboard. 

Crimson  velvet  valances  with  a  gold-lace  stripe 
hung  at  the  windows,  and  were  economically  re- 
peated in  paint  under  the  looking-glasses,  which 
were  lit  up  by  triple-branched  sconces.  On  the 
walls,  in  large  white  panels,  pastorals  by  Boucher, 
surrounded  by  painted  frames,  alternated  with 
Prud'hon's  "Seasons,"  astonished  to  find  them- 
selves there;  and  over  the  windows  and  doors 
dropsical  loves  played  among  fine  roses  that  had 
been  taken  off  the  pomatum-pot  of  some  suburban 
hair  dresser.  Square  posts,  spotted  with  sorry 
arabesques,  supported  the  middle  of  the  room  in 
the  centre  of  which  was  a  small  octagonal  gallery 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

for  the  orchestra.  An  oaken  barrier,  breast-high 
and  serving  as  a  back  to  a  red,  meagre  bench, 
enclosed  the  dancers.  And  against  this  barrier 
on  the  outside,  green-painted  tables  with  wooden 
benches  were  crowded  together  in  two  rows,  thus 
surrounding  the  ball  with  a  cafe. 

In  the  space  reserved  for  dancing,  beneath  the 
sharp  fire  and  darting  flames  of  the  gas,  were  all 
sorts  of  women  clad  in  dark,  worn,  faded  woollen- 
stuffs,  women  in  black  tulle  caps,  women  in  black 
paletots,  women  in  jackets  worn  out  and  frayed 
at  the  seams,  women  cramped  in  the  fur  tippets 
of  open-air  dealers  and  side-street  shops.  Amidst 
all  this,  there  was  not  a  collar  to  frame  the  youth- 
fulness  of  the  faces,  not  a  scrap  of  a  light  petti- 
coat fluttering  out  of  the  whirlwind  of  the  dance, 
not  a  touch  of  white  among  these  women,  sad- 
colored  to  the  toes  of  their  dull  boots,  and  wholly 
clad  in  the  hues  of  wretchedness.  This  absence 
of  linen  gave  an  appearance  of  poverty-stricken 
mourning  to  the  ball;  it  imparted  something  sad, 
and  dirty,  deadened  and  earthy,  to  all  these  forms, 
a  kind  of  vague,  sinister  aspect  wherein  the  return 
from  the  hospital  was  mingled  with  the  return  from 
the  pawnshop! 

An  old  woman,  bare-headed  and  with  her  hair 
parted  on  the  side  of  her  head,  was  handing  round 
the  tables  a  basket  filled  with  pieces  of  Savoy 
cake  and  red-cheeked  apples. 

From  time  to  time  the  dance,  in  its  swinging 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

and  whirling,  would  display  a  dirty  stocking,  the 
Jewish  type  of  a  street  sponge-seller,  red  fingers 
at  the  end  of  black  mittens,  a  brown,  moustached 
face,  an  under-petticoat  spotted  with  dirt  two 
days  old,  a  second-hand  crinoline  strained  and 
quite  bent,  flowered  village  calico,  or  a  piece  of  a 
kept  woman's  cast-off  garments. 

The  men  wore  overcoats,  limp  caps  turned 
down  behind,  and  woollen  comforters,  unfastened 
and  hanging  down  their  backs.  They  invited  the 
women  by  pulling  the  cap-ribbons  that  streamed 
behind  them.  A  few  in  hats,  surtouts,  and  colored 
shirts,  had  a  look  like  that  of  the  insolent  domes- 
tics and  stablemen  of  some  great  household. 

Everywhere  there  was  hopping  and  movement. 
The  women  dancers  threw  themselves  about  and 
capered,  animated,  clumsy,  and  riotous  beneath 
the  lash  of  bestial  joy.  And  during  the  second 
figure  might  be  heard  the  giving  of  such  addresses 
as  Impasse  du  Depotoir. 

Here  it  was  that  Germinie  walked  in  just  as 
the  quadrille  was  ending  with  the  air  of  "Daddy 
Bugeaud's  Cap,"  in  which  the  cymbals,  bells, 
and  drum  had  imparted  to  the  dance  the 
giddiness  and  madness  of  their  noise.  At  a 
glance  Germinie  took  in  the  room,  with  all  the 
men  bringing  back  their  partners  to  the  places 
marked  by  their  caps.  She  had  been  deceived; 
be  was  not  there;  she  did  not  see  him.  Never- 
theless she  waited.  She  entered  the  dancing 

C  105  3 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

enclosure  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  bench, 
trying  not  to  look  too  uncomfortable.  From  their 
linen  caps,  she  had  concluded  that  the  women 
seated  in  a  row  beside  her  were  servants  like  her- 
self. Fellow-servants  intimidated  her  less  than 
the  dancing-lasses,  with  their  hair  in  a  net,  their 
hands  in  the  pockets  of  their  paletots,  impudent 
eyes,  and  humming  lips. 

But,  even  on  her  bench,  she  soon  attracted 
malevolent  attention.  Her  bonnet  —  only  a  dozen 
women  at  the  ball  wore  bonnets --her  scalloped 
petticoat  the  white  of  which  showed  beneath  her 
dress,  the  gold  brooch  in  her  shawl,  created  hostile 
curiosity  around  her.  They  cast  ill-natured  glances 
and  smiles  at  her.  All  the  women  seemed  to  be 
asking  themselves  whence  this  new-comer  came, 
and  to  be  telling  themselves  that  she  had  come  to 
take  the  lovers  of  the  rest.  Friends  walking 
through  the  room,  clasped  together  as  though  for 
a  waltz,  with  their  hands  slipped  about  each  other's 
waists,  made  her  cast  down  her  eyes  as  they  passed 
before  her,  and  then  moved  off  shrugging  their 
shoulders  and  turning  back  their  heads. 

She  changed  her  position  and  again  encountered 
the  same  smiles,  the  same  hostility,  the  same 
whisperings.  She  went  to  the  end  of  the  room, 
and  all  these  women's  eyes  followed  her;  she 
felt  herself  enwrapped  in  looks  of  malice  and 
envy  from  the  hem  of  her  dress  to  the  flowers  in 
her  bonnet.  She  was  red  in  the  face;  at  times, 

CI063 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

she  feared  that  she  would  weep.  She  .wished  to 
go  away,  but  courage  to  cross  the  room  wholly 
failed  her. 

She  began  to  look  mechanically  at  an  old  woman 
walking  slowly  round  the  room  with  a  silent  step 
like  a  night-bird's  circling  flight.  A  black  bonnet 
of  the  color  of  burnt  paper  confined  the  bands  of 
her  whitening  hair.  From  her  square,  high,  man- 
like shoulders  hung  a  lead-colored  Scotch  tartan. 
On  reaching  the  door  she  cast  a  last  look  into  the 
room,  and  took  it  all  in  with  the  eye  of  a  vulture 
seeking  meat  and  finding  none. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shout:  it  was  a  policeman 
turning  out  a  slight  youth  who  was  trying  to  bite 
the  man's  hands,  and  was  clinging  to  the  tables 
against  which,  as  he  fell,  he  made  a  sharp,  break- 
ing noise. 

As  Germinie  turned  away  her  head  she  per- 
ceived Jupillon:  he  was  there,  in  the  recess  of  a 
window,  smoking  at  a  green  table  between  two 
women.  One  was  a  tall  blonde  with  scanty, 
frizzled,  hemp-like  hair,  a  flat,  stupid  face,  and 
round  eyes.  A  red  flannel  chemise  was  wrinkled 
up  her  back,  and  with  her  hands  she  was  dancing 
about  the  two  pockets  of  a  black  apron  that 
covered  her  maroon-colored  skirt.  The  other, 
who  was  small  and  dark,  with  a  face  that  was 
quite  red  from  being  washed  with  soap,  was 
muffled,  with  all  the  coquetry  of  a  fish-wife,  in 
a  white  knitted  hood  with  a  blue  border. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Jupillon  had  recognized  Germinie.  When  he 
saw  her  getting  up  and  coming  to  him  with  a 
fixed  look,  he  leaned  over  to  the  ear  of  the  woman 
in  the  hood,  and  squaring  himself  as  he  sat, 
waited  with  both  elbows  on  the  table. 

"Hello!  is  that  you?"  he  said,  when  Germinie 
was    in    front   of   him    motionless,    erect,    mute. 
'This  is  a  surprise!     Waiter,  another  bowl." 

And  emptying  the  bowl  of  mulled  wine  into 
the  glasses  of  the  two  women,  he  exclaimed: 

"Look  here,  don't  be  a  fool.    Sit  down  there." 

And  as  Germinie  did  not  stir: 

"Tut!  these  are  ladies  who  belong  to  friends 
of  mine  —  ask  them!" 

"Melie,"  said  the  woman  in  the  hood  to  the 
other,  in  rasping  tones,  "don't  you  see?  It's  the 
gentleman's  mother!  Make  room  for  the  lady 
since  she's  kind  enough  to  drink  with  us." 

Germinie  cast  a  murderous  glance  at  the 
woman. 

"Eh!  what?"  resumed  the  latter,  "that  annoys 
you,  madame,  does  it?  Excuse  me!  you  ought  to 
have  told  me.  What  age  does  she  think  herself, 
eh,  Melie?  By  Jove!  you  choose 'em  young,  you 
do;  you're  not  particular!" 

Jupillon  was  covertly  smiling,  lounging  at  ease, 
and  inwardly  sneering.  His  whole  person  be- 
trayed the  cowardly  joy  which  bad  men  take  in 
seeing  the  sufferings  of  those  who  suffer  because 
they  love  them. 

C  108:] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you --to  yourself — not 
here  —  outside,"  said  Germinie  to  him. 

"I  hope  you'll  enjoy  yourselves!  Are  you 
coming,  Melie?"  said  the  woman  in  the  cape,  re- 
lighting an  extinguished  cigar-end  forgotten  by 
Jupillon  on  the  table  beside  a  slice  of  lemon. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  Jupillon,  moved 
in  spite  of  himself  by  the  tone  of  Germinie's  voice. 

"Come!" 

And  she  began  to  walk  in  front  of  them.  There 
was  crowding  and  laughing  as  she  went.  She 
could  hear  voices  and  phrases,  and  muttered 
hootings. 


1093 


XVII 

JUPILLON  promised  Germinie  that  he  would 
return  to  the  ball  no  more.  But  the  young 
man  was  beginning  to  have  the  reputation  of  a 
Brididi  at  these  tavern-hops  of  the  barrier,  at 
the  "Boule  Noire,"  the  "Reine  Blanche,"  and 
the  "Ermitage."  He  had  become  a  dancer  who 
brings  the  consumers  at  the  table  to  their  feet, 
a  dancer  who  has  a  whole  hall  hanging  on  the 
sole  of  his  boot  as  he  flings  it  two  inches  higher  than 
his  head,  a  dancer  whom  the  women  of  the  place 
invite,  and  to  whom  they  frequently  offer  re- 
freshments to  dance  with  them.  The  ball  was  not 
to  him  merely  a  ball,  it  was  a  theatre,  a  public 
popularity,  applause,  the  flattering  murmurs  of 
his  name  in  the  various  groups,  the  ovation  of 
a  cancan-dancer's  glory  beneath  the  fire  of  the 
lamps. 

On  the  Sunday  he  did  not  go  to  the  "Boule 
Noire,"  but  on  the  Thursday  following  he  returned; 
and  Germinie,  seeing  clearly  that  she  was  unable 
to  prevent  his  going,  determined  to  follow  him 
and  to  stay  there  as  long  as  he  stayed.  Seated 
at  a  table  in  the  background,  in  the  worst-lighted 
corner  of  the  room,  she  followed  him  and  watched 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

him  with  her  eyes  during  the  whole  of  the  quad- 
rille; and  if  he  lingered  when  it  was  over,  she  would 
go  and  take  him  away,  withdrawing  him  almost 
by  force  from  the  hands  and  endearments  of  the 
women,  who,  in  malicious  sport,  would  persist  in 
pulling  and  detaining  him. 

As  she  quickly  became  known,  the  insults 
around  her  ceased  to  be  vague,  subdued,  and  dis- 
tant as  at  the  first  ball.  Words  assailed  her  to 
her  face,  and  laughter  spoke  to  her  aloud.  She 
was  obliged  to  spend  her  three  hours  amid  mock- 
ings  which  pointed  at  her,  indicated  her  with 
the  finger,  named  her,  fastened  her  age  upon  her 
face.  Every  moment  she  was  obliged  to  endure 
the  expression,  "old  woman,"  which  the  young 
hussies  would  spit  at  her  over  their  shoulders. 
Still,  these  women  simply  looked  at  her;  but 
often  partners  invited  to  drink  by  Jupillon, 
brought  by  him  to  the  table  where  Germinie  was, 
and  drinking  the  bowl  of  mulled  wine  for  which 
she  paid,  would  remain  leaning  on  their  elbows, 
with  their  cheeks  upon  their  hands,  appearing 
not  to  see  that  there  was  a  woman  there,  moving 
towards  her  place  as  though  it  were  empty,  and 
making  no  reply,  when  she  spoke  to  them.  Ger- 
minie could  have  killed  these  women  whom 
Jupillon  made  her  entertain  and  who  despised 
her  so  much  that  they  did  not  so  much  as 
notice  her  presence. 

It  came  to  pass  that,  worn  out  by  her  sufferings, 


CERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

and  revolted  by  all  the  humiliation  which  she 
was  obliged  to  suffer  in  this  place,  she  conceived 
the  idea  that  she  too  would  dance.  She  could 
see  no  other  means  of  keeping  her  lover  from 
others,  of  having  him  the  whole  evening,  per- 
haps of  attracting  him  by  her  success  should  she 
chance  to  succeed.  For  a  whole  month  she 
worked  in  secret  in  order  to  learn  how  to  dance. 
She  went  over  the  figures,  and  the  steps.  She 
strained  her  body,  toiled  to  acquire  the  flinging 
of  the  waist  and  whirl  of  the  petticoat  which  she 
saw  applauded.  After  doing  this  she  ventured; 
but  everything  baffled  her  and  added  to  her 
awkwardness  —  the  hostility  by  which  she  felt 
herself  surrounded,  the  smiles  of  astonishment 
and  pity  which  had  traversed  the  lips  when  she 
took  her  place  within  the  dancing  enclosure.  She 
was  so  ridiculous  and  so  much  laughed  at  that 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  try  again.  She  once 
more  buried  herself  gloomily  in  her  dark  corner, 
leaving  it  only  to  seek  Jupillon  and  lead  him  away 
with  the  mute  violence  of  a  woman  who  tears  her 
husband  from  the  public-house  and  carries  him 
off  by  the  arm. 

It  was  soon  rumored  through  the  street  that 
Germinie  went  to  these  balls,  and  that  she  never 
missed  one.  The  fruiterer,  at  whose  shop  Adele 
had  already  been  gossiping,  sent  her  son  "to  see"; 
he  came  back  saying  that  it  was  true,  and  he 
related  all  the  annoyances  to  which  Germinie  was 

CH2] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

subjected,  but  which  were  nevertheless  ineffectual 
to  prevent  her  from  returning.  Then  there  was 
no  longer  any  doubt  in  the  neighborhood  as  to 
the  relations  between  mademoiselle's  servant  and 
Jupillon,  relations  which  a  few  charitable  souls 
disputed  still.  The  scandal  was  discovered,  and 
in  one  week  the  poor  girl,  dragged  through  all  the 
slanders  of  the  neighborhood,  christened  and 
greeted  with  the  foulest  names  in  the  language  of 
the  street,  fell  at  a  single  stroke  from  the  most 
highly  expressed  esteem  into  the  most  brutally 
published  contempt. 

Hitherto  her  pride  —  and  it  was  great  —  had 
enjoyed  that  respect  and  consideration  which, 
in  a  district  of  women  of  easy  virtue,  surrounds 
the  servant  who  serves  a  respectable  person 
honestly.  People  had  accustomed  her  to  con- 
sideration, deference,  attention.  She  was  ex- 
cepted  from  among  her  companions.  Her  honesty, 
which  was  beyond  suspicion,  her  conduct,  which 
gave  rise  to  no  remarks,  the  confidential  position 
which  she  held  in  her  mistress's  house  and  which 
reflected  a  portion  of  her  mistress's  repute  upon 
herself,  caused  the  tradespeople  to  treat  her  on 
a  different  footing  from  that  of  other  servants. 
People  spoke  to  her  cap  in  hand,  and  always  said 
"Mademoiselle  Germinie"  to  her.  They  hastened 
to  serve  her;  they  pushed  forward  the  only  chair 
in  the  shop  to  have  her  wait.  Even  when  she 
bargained,  they  were  still  polite  with  her,  and 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

did  not  call  her  "a  haggler."  Jests  that  were 
rather  too  lively  were  checked  in  her  presence. 
She  was  invited  to  big  entertainments,  to  family 
gatherings,  and  was  consulted  about  things. 

All  was  changed  as  soon  as  her  relations  with 
Jupillon  and  her  regular  attendance  at  the  "Boule 
Noire"  became  known.  The  neighborhood  took 
its  revenge  for  having  respected  her.  The  shame- 
less servants  of  the  house  approached  as  though 
she  were  an  equal.  One,  whose  lover  was  at 
Mazas,  said  "My  dear"  to  her.  Men  addressed 
her  familiarly,  and  showed  freedom  by  look,  tone, 
gesture,  hand.  Even  the  children  on  the  pave- 
ment, who  had  formerly  drawn  themselves  up 
to  give  her  a  curtsy,  fled  from  her  as  from  one 
whom  they  had  been  told  to  fear.  She  felt  that 
she  was  being  treated  in  an  underhand  way,  that 
she  was  being  served  abominably  ill.  She  could 
not  take  a  step  without  walking  into  the  midst 
of  contempt,  and  receiving  her  shame  upon  the 
cheek. 

This  was  to  her  a  terrible  forfeiture  of  herself. 
She  suffered  as  though  her  honor  were  being  torn 
piece  by  piece  from  her  in  the  kennel.  But  in 
proportion  to  her  sufferings  she  pressed  herself 
against  her  love  and  cleaved  to  it.  She  was  not 
angry  with  it,  she  uttered  no  reproach  against  it. 
She  clung  to  it  by  all  the  tears  that  it  brought 
her  pride  to  shed.  And,  thrown  back  and  riveted 
upon  her  shame,  she  might  be  seen  in  the  street 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

through  which  lately  she  had  passed  proudly  and 
with  head  carried  high,  advancing  furtively  and 
fearfully,  with  bent  back,  and  oblique  glance, 
anxious  to  avoid  recognition,  and  hastening  her 
steps  in  front  of  the  shops  which  swept  out  their 
slanders  upon  her  heels. 


XVIII 

JUPILLON  used  to  complain  unceasingly  of 
the  annoyance  of  working  for  others,  of  not 
being  "in  quarters  of  his  own,"  of  not  being 
able  to  find  fifteen  or  eighteen  hundred  francs 
in  his  mother's  purse.  He  asked  for  no  bigger 
sum  in  order  to  rent  two  rooms  on  a  ground-floor, 
and  start  a  little  glove-business.  And  already  he 
had  his  plans  and  his  dreams:  he  would  set  up  in 
the  neighborhood,  which  was  an  excellent  one  for 
his  trade,  full  of  purchasers  and  extravagant 
ladies  who  think  nothing  of  kids  at  five  francs 
a  pair.  To  gloves  he  would  soon  unite  perfumery 
and  ties;  then  with  his  big  profits,  and  the  money 
obtained  in  selling  the  business  again,  he  would 
move  into  a  shop  in  the  Rue  Richelieu. 

Whenever  he  spoke  of  this,  Germinie  asked  him 
for  a  thousand  explanations.  She  wanted  to  know 
all  that  was  necessary  for  setting  up  the  business. 
She  asked  for  the  names  of  the  tools  and  accesso- 
ries, with  their  prices  and  the  dealers  in  them. 
She  questioned  him  about  his  trade  and  his  work 
so  inquisitively  and  at  such  length  that  finally 
Jupillon,  being  out  of  patience,  ended  by  saying 
to  her: 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"What  is  all  that  to  you?  The  work  bothers 
me  enough  as  it  is;  don't  talk  to  me  about  it!" 

One  Sunday  she  was  walking  up  towards  Mont- 
martre  with  him.  Instead  of  going  by  the  Rue 
Trochot  she  went  by  the  Rue  Pigalle. 

"But  it's  not  that  way,"  said  Jupillon  to  her. 

"I  know  that,"  she  said,  "but  come,  neverthe- 
less." 

She  had  taken  his  arm,  and  as  she  walked  she 
turned  a  little  away  from  him  that  he  might  not 
see  what  was  passing  on  her  face.  In  the  middle 
of  the  Rue  Fontaine-Saint-Georges,  she  stopped 
him  abruptly  in  front  of  two  ground-floor  windows, 
and  said  to  him: 

"Look  there!" 

She  was  trembling  with  joy. 

Jupillon  looked:  between  the  two  windows, 
he  saw  on  a  plate  in  bright  copper  letters: 

GLOVE  WAREHOUSE 
JUPILLON 

He  saw  white  curtains  in  the  first  window. 
Through  the  panes  in  the  second  he  perceived 
pigeon-holes,  cardboard  boxes,  and,  in  the  fore- 
ground, the  little  work-table  of  his  trade,  with 
the  large  scissors,  the  jar  for  the  pieces,  and  the 
pointed  knife  for  trimming  the  skins. 

"Your  key  is  at  the  doorkeeper's,"  she  said  to 
him. 

C  "7:1 


G  E  R  M  I  N  I  E    L  A  C  E  R  T  E  U  X 

They  went  into  the  first  room  of  the  shop. 

She  became  eager  to  show  him  everything. 
She  opened  the  cardboard  boxes  and  laughed. 
Then  pushing  open  the  door  of  the  other  room: 

"See,  you  won't  be  stifled  there  as  in  your 
mother's  garret.  Does  it  please  you?  Oh!  it's 
not  handsome  but  it's  clean.  I  should  have 
liked  mahogany  for  you.  Does  this  please 
you,  this  hearth-rug?  And  the  paper  —  I  was 
forgetting." 

She  placed  in  his  hand  a  receipt  for  rent. 

"Here!  it's  for  six  months.  Ah!  you'll  have  to 
set  to  work  immediately  to  make  money.  There 
are  my  pence  in  the  savings  bank  gone  at  a  stroke. 
Ah!  here,  let  me  sit  down.  You  look  so  pleased 
-  it  has  such  an  effect  upon  me  —  it  makes  me 
giddy  -  -  I  have  lost  my  legs." 

And  she  let  herself  slide  on  to  a  chair.  Jupillon 
bent  over  her  to  kiss  her. 

"Ah!  yes,  they  are  gone,"  she  said  to  him, 
seeing  his  eyes  looking  for  her  earrings.  "  They're 
like  my  rings.  Look,  do  you  see,  all  gone." 

And  she  showed  him  her  hands  stripped 
of  the  poor  jewels  she  had  worked  so  long 
to  buy. 

'That  was  for  the  arm-chair,  all  that,  see,  but 
it's  all  horse-hair." 

And  as  Jupillon  stood  before  her  with  the  look 
of  a  man  embarrassed,  and  seeking  for  words  of 
thanks: 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Why,  you  are  quite  funny.  What  is  the 
matter  with  you?  Ah!  it  is  for  that?"  And  she 
indicated  the  room.  "You're  foolish!  I  love 
you,  don't  I?  Well?" 

Germinie  said  this  simply,  in  the  way  that  the 
heart  says  sublime  things. 


XIX 

SHE  became  pregnant. 
At  first  she  doubted,  and  dared  not  be- 
lieve it.  Then,  when  she  was  certain  of  it, 
an  immense  joy  filled  her,  a  joy  which  steeped 
her  soul.  Her  happiness  was  so  great  and  so 
strong  that  it  instantly  stifled  the  anguish,  the 
dread,  the  trembling  thoughts,  which  commonly 
enter  into  the  maternity  of  unmarried  women 
and  embitter  the  expectation  of  delivery,  the 
divine  hope  living  and  stirring  within  them.  The 
thought  of  the  scandal  caused  by  her  detected 
liaison,  of  the  exposure  of  her  guilt  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, the  thought  of  that  abominable  thing 
which  had  made  her  think  constantly  of  suicide; 
the  disgrace,  even  the  fear  of  seeing  herself  found 
out  by  mademoiselle  and  driven  away  by  her, 
could  in  no  degree  affect  her  bliss.  As  though  she 
had  already  lifted  it  in  her  arms  before  her,  the 
child  that  she  was  awaiting  suffered  her  to  see 
nothing  but  itself;  and  with  but  scanty  conceal- 
ment she  bore  her  woman's  shame  almost  proudly 
beneath  the  gaze  of  the  street  in  the  pride  and 
radiancy  of  the  mother  that  she  was  going  to  be. 
She  was  distressed  only  at  having  spent  all  her 
£  i2ol] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

savings,  at  being  without  money  and  indebted 
to  her  mistress  for  several  months'  wages  in 
advance.  She  bitterly  regretted  her  poverty  for 
the  reception  of  her  child.  Often  when  passing 
through  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare  she  would  stop  in 
front  of  a  linen  warehouse,  in  the  windows  of 
which  were  displayed  layettes  for  rich  children. 
Her  eyes  would  devour  all  the  prettily  worked 
and  coquettish  linen,  the  quilted  bibs,  the  long, 
short-waisted  robe  trimmed  with  English  em- 
broideries, the  whole  toilet  of  cherub  and  doll. 
A  terrible  longing,  the  longing  of  a  pregnant 
woman,  seized  her  to  break  through  the  glass 
and  steal  it  all,  and  behind  the  display  of  the 
window  the  shopmen,  who  had  become  used  to 
seeing  her  standing  there,  would  point  her  out 
to  one  another  and  laugh. 

Then  again,  amid  the  happiness  which  over- 
whelmed her,  amid  the  rapturous  joy  which  up- 
lifted her  entire  being,  an  anxiety  would  at  times 
pass  through  her.  She  asked  herself  how  the 
father  would  accept  the  child.  Two  or  three 
times  she  had  wanted  to  announce  her  pregnancy 
to  him  and  had  not  dared  to  do  so.  At  last  one 
day,  seeing  him  with  the  face  for  which  she  had 
been  waiting  so  long  in  order  to  tell  him  every- 
thing, a  face  in  which  there  was  a  touch  of  tender- 
ness, she  confessed  to  him,  with  blushes,  and  as 
though  asking  his  pardon  for  it,  what  was  making 
her  so  happy. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"What  an  idea!"  said  Jupillon. 

Then,  when  she  had  assured  him  that  it  was 
not  an  idea  and  that  her  pregnancy  was  posi- 
tively five  months  old: 

"What  luck!"  returned  the  young  man.  "Much 
obliged  to  you!"  And  he  swore.  "Just  you  tell 
me  who's  to  give  this  sparrow  his  beakful?" 

"Oh,  be  easy!  he  won't  suffer,  that's  my  busi- 
ness. And  then  it  will  be  so  nice!  Don't  be  afraid; 
no  one  will  know  anything  about  it.  I'll  manage. 
See!  during  the  last  days  I'll  walk  like  this,  with 
my  head  back --I'll  wear  no  more  petticoats 
-I'll  squeeze  myself,  you'll  see! --No  one  will 
notice  anything,  I  tell  you  —  A  little  child  of 
our  own,  just  think!" 

"In  short,  since  it's  so  it's  so,  isn't  it?"  said 
the  young  man. 

"I  say,"  ventured  Germinie  timidly,  "suppose 
you  were  to  tell  your  mother?" 

"Mammy? -- No,  indeed.  You  must  be  con- 
fined and  after  that  we'll  bring  the  brat  to  the 
house  —  that'll  touch  her  up,  and  perhaps  she'll 
give  us  her  consent." 


£122:1 


XX 


TWELFTH  NIGHT  came.      It  was  the  oc- 
casion of  a  great  dinner-party  given  regu- 
larly    every     year     by     Mademoiselle     de 
Varandeuil.     On  this  day  she  used  to  invite  all 
the    children,    big    and    little,    belonging   to    her 
relations   and    her   friends.      The   little   dwelling 
could  scarcely  hold  them.     It  was  necessary  to 
put  part  of  the  furniture  upon  the  landing.    And 
a  table  was  laid  in  each  of  the  two  rooms  which 
formed  the  whole  of  mademoiselle's  abode. 

For  the  children  this  day  was  a  great  treat 
to  which  they  used  to  look  forward  a  week  before- 
hand. They  ran  up  the  staircase  behind  the 
pastry-cook  waiters.  At  table  they  overate  them- 
selves without  being  scolded.  In  the  evening 
they  would  not  go  to  bed,  climbed  upon  the  chairs, 
and  made  a  din  which  always  gave  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil  a  headache  next  day;  but  she  was 
not  vexed  with  them,  for  she  had  the  happiness 
of  a  grandmother's  birthday  in  hearing  them,  in 
seeing  them,  in  fastening  behind  them  the  white 
napkins  which  made  them  look  so  rosy.  And  for 
nothing  in  the  world  would  she  have  failed  to 
give  this  dinner-party,  which  filled  an  old  maid's 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

rooms  with  all  those  little  fair,  mischievous  heads, 
and  gave  them  in  one  noisy  day,  youth  and  laugh- 
ter for  a  year. 

Germinie  was  engaged  in  cooking  this  dinner. 
She  was  whipping  cream  in  a  basin  on  her  knees 
when  suddenly  she  felt  her  first  pains.  She  looked 
at  herself  in  the  bit  of  broken  glass  which  she  had 
over  her  dresser,  and  she  saw  that  she  was  pale. 
She  went  down  to  Adele:  "Give  me  your  mis- 
tress's rouge,"  she  said  to  her.  And  she  put  some 
on  her  cheeks.  Then  she  went  upstairs  again, 
and,  unwilling  to  indulge  her  pain,  finished  the 
dinner.  It  had  to  be  served,  and  she  served  it. 
At  dessert,  when  handing  plates,  she  leaned  against 
the  furniture,  and  held  to  the  backs  of  the  chairs, 
hiding  her  torture  with  the  horrible,  shrivelled 
smile  of  those  whose  bowels  are  being  wrung. 

"Ah!  you  are  ill?"  asked  her  mistress,  looking 
at  her. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,  a  little  —  perhaps  it's  the 
fire,  the  kitchen  - 

"Well,  go  to  bed.  You  are  not  wanted  any 
more,  and  you  can  clear  away  to-morrow." 

She  went  down  again  to  Adele. 

"It's  come,"  she  said  to  her,  "quick  —  a  cab. 
Isn't  it  in  the  Rue  de  la  Hutchette  that  you  told 
me  your  midwife  is,  opposite  a  copper-planisher's? 
You  haven't  a  pen  and  some  paper,  have  you?" 

And  she  began  to  write  a  line  for  her  mistress. 
She  told  her  that  she  was  suffering  excessively  and 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

was  going  to  a  hospital,  that  she  did  not  say  "where 
because  mademoiselle  would  tire  herself  coming 
to  see  her,  and  that  she  would  be  back  again  in  a 
week. 

"There!"  said  Adele,  out  of  breath,  and  giving 
her  the  number  of  the  cab. 

"I  may  remain  there,"  said  Germinie  to  her, 
"but  not  a  word  to  mademoiselle.  That's  all. 
Swear  it  to  me,  not  a  word!" 

She  was  going  down  the  stairs  when  she  met 
Jupillon. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  "where  are  you  going  —  out?" 

"I  am  going  to  be  confined.  The  pains  came 
on  during  the  day.  There  was  a  large  dinner- 
party. Ah!  it  was  hard!  Why  do  you  come  here? 
I  told  you  never  to  come,  I  won't  have  it!" 

"The  fact  is  --  I  must  tell  you  --  I'm  just  now 
in  absolute  need  of  forty  francs.  There,  truly, 
in  absolute  need." 

"Forty  francs!  why,  I  have  only  just  enough 
for  the  midwife." 

"It's  a  nuisance  —  there!  It  can't  be  helped," 
and  he  gave  her  his  arm  to  assist  her  downstairs. 
"By  Jove!  I  shall  have  a  job  to  get  them,  all  the 
same." 

He  had  opened  the  door  of  the  vehicle:  "Where 
is  he  to  take  you?" 

"To  La  Bourbe,"  said  Germinie.  And  she 
slipped  the  forty  francs  into  his  hand. 

"Don't,"  said  Jupillon. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Ah!  nonsense  —  there  or  anywhere  else!  Be- 
sides, I've  seven  francs  left." 

The  cab  started. 

Jupillon  stood  for  a  moment  motionless  on  the 
pavement,  looking  at  the  two  napoleons  in  his 
hand.  Then  he  began  to  run  after  the  cab,  and, 
stopping  it,  said  to  Germinie  through  the  window: 

"At  least,  let  me  see  you  to  the  place?" 

"No,  I'm  in  too  much  pain.  I'd  rather  be 
alone,"  answered  Germinie,  writhing  on  the 
cushions  of  the  cab. 

At  the  end  of  an  eternal  half-hour  the  cab 
stopped  in  the  Rue  de  Port-Royal,  in  front  of  a 
black  door  surmounted  by  a  violet  lantern  which 
announced  to  medical  students  passing  in  the 
street  that,  on  that  night  and  at  that  very  mo- 
ment, there  was  the  curiosity  and  interest  of  a 
painful  delivery  at  the  Maternity. 

The  driver  got  down  from  his  box  and  rang. 
The  porter,  assisted  by  a  maid,  took  Germinie 
under  the  arms  and  brought  her  up  to  one  of  the 
four  beds  in  the  delivery  ward.  Once  in  bed  her 
pains  became  a  little  easier.  She  looked  round 
her,  saw  the  other  empty  beds,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  immense  apartment,  a  large  hearth  such  as 
is  found  in  the  country,  blazing  with  a  great  fire 
in  front  of  which  swaddling-clothes,  sheets,  and 
under-covers  were  hanging  to  dry. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Germinie  was  de- 
livered; she  brought  a  little  girl  into  the  world. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Her  bed  was  wheeled  into  another  ward.  She 
had  been  there  for  several  hours,  lost  in  the  sweet 
weakness  of  deliverance  which  follows  the  fright- 
ful pangs  of  child-birth,  perfectly  happy  and  as- 
tonished at  being  still  alive,  bathed  in  ease  and 
profoundly  affected  by  the  vague  happiness  of 
having  created.  Suddenly  a  cry  of  "I'm  dying!" 
made  her  look  to  one  side:  she  saw  one  of  her 
neighbors  throw  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  a 
nursing  student  midwife,  fall  back  again  almost 
immediately,  stir  for  a  moment  beneath  the 
sheets,  and  then  move  no  more.  Almost  at  the 
same  instant  there  rose  from  an  adjacent  bed 
another  horrible,  piercing,  terrified  cry,  the  cry 
of  one  who  looks  on  death;  it  was  a  woman 
calling  with  despairing  hands  on  the  young  pupil; 
the  latter  hastened  to  her,  stooped  down,  and  fell 
stiff  and  fainting  to  the  ground. 

Then  silence  returned;  but  Germinie  and  the 
other  women  in  the  room  that  were  still  alive 
remained  between  the  two  dead  women  and  the 
half  dead  woman  —  who  was  not  brought  to  her- 
self by  the  coldness  of  the  floor  for  more  than  an 
hour  —  without  even  venturing  to  pull  the  bell 
hung  in  each  bed  for  the  purpose  of  summoning 
assistance. 

At  that  time  there  was  at  the  Maternity  one 
of  those  terrible  puerperal  epidemics  which  breathe 
death  upon  human  fruitfulness,  one  of  those 
poisonings  of  the  air  which  simply  empty  in  whole 

£127:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

rows  the  beds  of  women  in  travail  and  which  once 
used  to  shut  up  La  Clinique:  it  was  like  the  passing 
of  the  plague,  a  plague  which  blackens  the  coun- 
tenance in  a  few  hours,  carries  off  everyone,  sweeps 
away  the  strongest  and  the  youngest,  a  plague 
which  issues  from  the  cradle,  the  Black  Death  of 
mothers! 

Every  hour,  and  especially  at  night,  there  were 
round  about  Germinie  corpses  such  as  are  the 
handiwork  of  milk  fever,  corpses  which  seemed 
to  be  a  violation  of  nature,  tortured  corpses, 
frenzied  with  shriekings  and  troubled  with  hallu- 
cination and  delirium,  death-struggles  which  ren- 
dered the  strait- waistcoat  of  madness  a  neces- 
sity, death-struggles  which  would  suddenly  spring 
from  the  bed,  carrying  the  sheets  with  them,  and 
causing  the  whole  ward  to  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  the  corpses  of  the  amphitheatre  return! 
Life  departed  there  as  though  wrenched  from  the 
body.  The  sickness  itself  assumed  shapes  of 
horror,  and  monstrous  appearance.  In  the  beds 
beneath  the  lamp-light,  the  sheets  rose  in  the  centre 
dim  and  horrible  with  the  swellings  of  peritonitis. 

For  five  days  Germinie,  curling  and  gathering 
herself  up  in  her  bed,  and  closing  eyes  and  ears 
as  best  she  might,  was  strong  enough  to  strive 
against  all  these  terrors  and  to  yield  only  occasion- 
ally to  them.  She  wanted  to  live,  and  her  strength 
was  stimulated  by  the  thought  of  her  child  and  by 
the  recollection  of  mademoiselle.  But  on  the 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

sixth  day  her  energy  was  exhausted,  and  her 
courage  forsook  her.  A  chill  entered  into  her  soul; 
she  told  herself  that  all  was  over.  The  hand  that 
death  lays  upon  your  shoulder,  the  presentiment 
that  you  are  about  to  die,  was  already  touching 
her.  She  was  sensible  of  the  first  attack  of  the 
epidemic,  the  belief  that  she  belonged  to  it,  and 
the  impression  that  she  was  already  half  possessed 
by  it.  Without  being  resigned,  she  abandoned 
herself.  Her  life,  vanquished  in  anticipation, 
scarcely  continued  the  effort  to  struggle.  She 
was  in  this  condition  when  a  head  bent  like  a 
light  over  her  bed. 

It  was  the  head  of  the  youngest  of  the  pupils, 
a  fair  head  with  long  golden  hair,  and  blue  eyes 
of  such  sweetness  that  dying  women  could  see 
heaven  opening  up  within  them.  When  women 
in  delirium  saw  her  they  used  to  say:  "See!  it 
is  the  Holy  Virgin!" 

"My  child,"  she  said  to  Germinie,  "you  must 
ask  for  your  discharge  at  once.  You  must  leave. 
Dress  yourself  very  warmly,  and  protect  your- 
self well.  As  soon  as  you  are  in  bed  at  home,  you 
must  take  something  hot,  tisane,  or  an  infusion 
of  lime-flowers.  Try  to  perspire.  In  this  way 
you  will  be  none  the  worse.  But  go.  Here,  to- 
night," she  said,  casting  her  eyes  over  the  beds, 
"it  would  not  be  good  for  you.  Don't  say  that 
it  is  I  who  am  making  you  leave:  you  would 
have  me  turned  out." 

C 


XXI 

GERMINIE  recovered  in  a  few  days. 
The  joy  and  pride  of  having  given  birth 
to  a  little  creature  in  whom  her  own  flesh 
was  blended  with  that  of  the  man  she  loved,  the 
happiness  of  being  a  mother,  saved  her  from  the 
consequences    of    a    badly    nursed    confinement. 
She  was  restored  to  health,  and  she  wore  a  look 
of  gratification  with  life  that  her  mistress  had 
never  before  seen  with  her. 

Every  Sunday,  whatever  the  weather,  she  set 
off  at  about  eleven  o'clock.  Mademoiselle  thought 
that  she  went  to  see  a  friend  in  the  country,  and 
was  delighted  with  the  benefit  which  her  maid 
derived  from  these  days  in  the  open  air.  Ger- 
minie  used  to  take  Jupillon,  who  allowed  himself 
to  be  carried  off  without  overmuch  grumbling, 
and  they  would  leave  for  Pommeuse  where  the 
child  was,  and  where  a  good  luncheon,  ordered 
by  the  mother,  awaited  them.  Once  in  the  car- 
riage on  the  Mulhouse  railway,  Germinie  could 
no  longer  speak,  could  no  longer  reply.  Leaning 
towards  the  window  she  seemed  to  have  all  her 
thoughts  in  front  of  her.  She  gazed  as  though 
her  longing  would  fain  have  outstripped  steam. 

£130:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Scarcely  had  the  train  stopped,  when  she  sprang 
out,  threw  her  ticket  to  the  collector,  and  hastened 
into  the  Pommeuse  road,  leaving  Jupillon  behind. 
She  approached,  she  arrived,  she  was  come;  there 
it  was!  She  would  rush  upon  her  child,  take  it 
out  of  the  nurse's  arms  with  jealous  hands  — 
mother's  hands!  —  press  it,  clasp  it,  embrace  it, 
devour  it  with  kisses,  and  looks,  and  laughter! 
She  would  admire  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  dis- 
tracted, blissful,  mad  with  love,  would  cover  it 
with  lip-tenderness  to  the  tips  of  its  little  naked 
feet. 

They  used  to  lunch.  She  sat  down  to  table 
with  the  child  on  her  knees,  and  could  eat  nothing. 
She  had  been  kissing  it  so  much  that  she  had  not 
yet  seen  it,  and  she  would  begin  to  seek  to  detail 
the  little  one's  resemblance  to  them  both.  One 
feature  was  his,  another  her  own. 

"That  is  your  nose  —  these  are  my  eyes.  In 
time  she  will  have  hair  like  yours  —  it  will  curl! 
Look,  these  are  your  hands  —  it's  your  own 
self—" 

And  for  hours  she  indulged  in  the  exhaustless 
and  delightful  dotage  of  a  woman  who  wants  to 
give  a  man  a  share  in  their  daughter.  Jupillon 
acquiesced  in  it  all  without  too  much  impatience, 
thanks  to  the  three-sou  cigars  which  Germinie 
used  to  take  out  of  her  pocket  and  give  him  one  by 
one.  Moreover,  he  had  discovered  a  means  of 
diversion:  the  Morin  flowed  past  the  end  of  the 

CI3I3 


CERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

garden.  Jupillon  was  a  Parisian,  and  he  was 
fond  of  angling. 

When  the  summer  had  come  they  stayed  the 
whole  day  by  the  water's  edge  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  Jupillon  on  a  spring-board  thrown  over 
two  stakes,  Germinie,  with  the  child  in  her  lap, 
seated  on  the  ground  beneath  the  medlar  which 
bent  over  the  river.  The  day  was  perhaps  a 
brilliant  one,  the  sun  burning  the  great  flaming 
water-sheet  which  threw  off  the  flashings  like  a 
mirror.  It  was  like  a  bonfire  of  sky  and  river, 
in  the  midst  of  which  Germinie  would  hold  up 
her  daughter  and  make  her  trample  upon  her, 
naked  and  rosy,  with  her  short  vest,  her  skin 
quivering  with  sun-light  here  and  there,  her  flesh 
struck  with  rays  like  the  angel-flesh  which  Ger- 
minie had  seen  in  pictures. 

She  experienced  divine  delights  when  the  little 
thing,  with  the  meddling  hands  of  a  child  as  yet 
unable  to  speak,  would  touch  her  on  the  chin  and 
mouth  and  cheeks,  would  persist  in  putting  her 
fingers  into  her  eyes,  would  check  them,  in  her 
play,  at  a  look,  and  would  cover  her  whole  face 
with  the  tickling  torment  of  those  dear  little 
hands  which  seem  to  be  groping  about  for  a 
mother's  face:  it  was  as  though  her  child's  life 
and  warmth  were  straying  over  her  features. 
From  time  to  time  she  would  send  half  her  smile 
to  Jupillon  over  the  baby's  head,  and  cry  to  him: 

"Now,  just  look  at  her!" 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Then  the  child  used  to  fall  asleep  with  those 
parted  lips  which  smile  in  slumber.  Germinie 
bent  down  to  her  breathing,  listening  to  her  rest; 
and  by  degrees,  lulled  by  the  child's  respiration, 
she  forgot  herself  deliciously  as  she  gazed  at  the 
poor  locality  of  her  happiness,  the  country  garden, 
the  apple-trees  with  leaves  covered  with  little 
yellow  snails,  the  rosy  apples  on  the  south  side, 
the  stick  at  the  foot  of  which  twined  the  pea- 
stems,  twisted  and  parched,  the  cabbage-bed,  the 
four  sunflowers  in  the  little  circular  bed  in  the 
middle  of  the  walk;  and,  quite  close  to  her,  on 
the  river's  bank,  the  plots  of  grass  filled  with 
mercury  plants,  the  white  nettle-tops  against  the 
wall,  the  washerwomen's  boxes,  the  bottles  of 
lye,  and  the  truss  of  straw  scattered  by  the  frolics 
of  a  puppy  in  coming  out  of  the  water.  She  gazed 
and  mused.  She  dreamed  of  the  past,  having 
her  future  on  her  knees.  With  the  grass,  the 
trees,  and  the  river,  which  were  there  before  her, 
she  formed  again,  in  memory,  the  rustic  garden 
of  her  rustic  childhood.  She  could  once  more  see 
the  two  stones  going  down  into  the  water,  where 
her  mother,  before  putting  her  to  bed,  used  to  wash 
her  feet  in  summer  when  she  was  quite  a  child. 

"I  say,  Daddy  Remalard,"  said  Jupillon  from 
his  position  on  his  plank  to  the  goodman  who 
was  watching  him,  on  one  of  the  hottest  days  of 
August,  "do  you  know  the  hook's  not  worth  a 
rap  with  the  red  worm  on  it?" 

C  I33II 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"It  'ud  want  a  gentle!"  said  the  peasant, 
sententiously. 

"Well,  we'll  have  it!  Daddy  Remalard,  you 
must  get  a  calf's  lights  on  Thursday,  and  hang  'em 
up  for  me  on  this  tree,  and  next  Sunday  we'll  see." 

On  Sunday  Jupillon  had  miraculous  luck,  and 
Germinie  heard  the  first  syllable  coming  from  her 
daughter's  lips. 


XXII 

ON  Wednesday  morning  Germinie  found  a 
letter  for  her  when  she  went  downstairs. 
In  this  letter,  which  was  written  on  the 
back  of  a  laundress's  receipt,  Mother  Remalard 
told  her  that  her  child  had  fallen  ill  almost  as 
soon  as  she  had  left:  that  since  then  she  had  been 
growing  worse,  that  she  had  consulted  the  doctor, 
that  he  had  spoken  of  a  noxious  fly  which  had 
bitten  the  child,  that  she  had  brought  her  to  him 
the  second  time,  that  she  was  at  her  wits'  end, 
that  she  had  had  pilgrimages  made  for  her.  The 
letter  concluded  thus: 

"If  you  could  see  what  trouble  I  have  with 
your  little  one,  and  if  you  could  see  how  bonny 
she  is  when  she  is  not  enduring  pain!" 

This  letter  had  upon  Germinie  an  effect  like 
that  of  a  great  blow  impelling  her  forward.  She 
went  out  and  proceeded  mechanically  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  railway  that  brought  her  to  her  child. 
She  was  bareheaded  and  in  slippers,  but  she  paid 
no  heed  to  this.  She  must  see  her  child,  and  see 
her  immediately;  after  that  she  would  return. 
She  gave  a  moment's  thought  to  mademoiselle's 
breakfast,  and  then  forgot  it.  Suddenly,  when 

CI353 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

half  way,  she  saw  the  time  by  a  clock  on  a  cab- 
office  —  she  recollected  that  there  was  no  train 
at  that  hour.  She  retraced  her  steps,  saying  to 
herself  that  she  would  hurry  over  the  breakfast, 
and  then  find  some  pretext  for  being  free  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  But  when  breakfast  had  been 
served  she  could  find  none:  her  head  was  so  full 
of  her  child  that  she  was  unable  to  invent  a  lie; 
her  imagination  was  dull.  And  then,  if  she  had 
spoken  and  asked,  she  would  have  burst  out  with 
it,  and  she  was  conscious  of  having  the  words, 

Tis  to  see  my  baby,"  on  her  lips.  At  nightfall 
she  dared  not  make  her  escape;  mademoiselle 
had  had  a  little  pain  the  previous  night,  and  she 
was  afraid  she  might  be  wanted. 

The  next  day  when  she  went  in  to  mademoiselle 
with  a  story  imagined  during  the  night,  and  pre- 
pared to  ask  permission  to  go  out,  mademoiselle 
said  to  her,  as  she  read  the  letter  which  Germinie 
had  brought  up  from  the  lodge: 

"Ah,  it's  my  old  friend,  Madame  de  Belleuse, 
who  wants  you  for  the  whole  day  to  help  her  with 
her  preserves.  Come,  my  two  eggs,  post-haste, 
and  be  off  with  you.  Why,  what  now!  that 
ruffles  you?  What  is  the  matter?" 

"I  —  oh!  not  at  all,"  Germinie  found  strength 
to  say. 

All  that  long  day  she  spent  amid  the  heat  of 
pans  and  the  tying  up  of  pots  in  such  torture  as 
is  suffered  by  those  who  are  fast  bound  by  their 

£136:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

lives  far  from  the  sickness  of  those  they  love. 
She  endured  the  anguish  of  those  unfortunates 
who  cannot  follow  their  anxieties,  and,  sinking 
into  the  depths  of  despair  at  their  remoteness  and 
uncertainty,  imagine  every  moment  that  death 
is  about  to  take  place  without  them. 

Finding  that  there  was  no  letter  on  Thursday 
evening,  no  letter  on  Friday  morning,  she  was 
reassured.  If  the  little  one  had  been  worse,  the 
nurse  would  have  written  to  her.  The  child  was 
getting  better,  and  she  imagined  it  to  herself  saved 
and  cured.  They  are  constantly  at  death's  door, 
are  children,  and  they  recover  so  quickly.  And 
then,  hers  was  so  strong.  She  resolved  to  wait, 
to  have  patience  until  Sunday,  which  was  only 
forty-eight  hours  distant,  beguiling  the  remnant 
of  her  fears  with  the  superstitions  which  say  yes 
to  hope,  persuading  herself  that  her  daughter  had 
"escaped,"  because  the  first  person  that  she  had 
met  in  the  morning  had  been  a  man,  because  she 
had  seen  a  red  horse  in  the  street,  because  she  had 
guessed  that  a  foot  passenger  would  go  down  such 
a  turning,  because  she  had  ascended  a  story  in 
so  many  strides. 

On  Saturday  morning,  going  in  to  see  Mother 
Jupillon,  she  found  her  engaged  in  shedding  big 
tears  over  a  print  of  butter  which  she  was  covering 
up  with  a  wet  cloth. 

"Ah!  it's  you,"  said  Mother  Jupillon.  "That 
poor  coal-woman!  I  can't  help  crying  for  her  — 


GERMIN1E    LACERTEUX 

there!  She's  just  left  here.  Perhaps  you  don't 
know,  but  in  her  trade  they  can  only  clean  their 
faces  with  butter  —  and  now  her  love  of  a  little 
girl,  she's  at  the  point  of  death  —  you  know  the 
darling  child.  Dear,  dear!  such  is  life.  Ah,  Lord, 
yes.  Well,  just  now  she  said  to  her,  'Mammy, 
I  want  you  to  clean  my  face  with  butter,  im- 
mediately, to  get  ready  for  God!'  Ah,  ah!" 

And  Mother  Jupillon  began  to  sob. 

Germinie  made  her  escape.  She  could  not  re- 
main quiet  during  the  whole  day.  Every  moment 
she  went  up  to  her  room  to  prepare  the  little  things 
which  she  wished  to  take  to  her  child  next  day  in 
order  to  make  her  "tidy,"  and  to  prepare  a  little 
toilet  for  her,  as  for  one  risen  from  the  dead.  As 
she  was  going  down  in  the  evening  to  put  made- 
moiselle to  bed,  Adele  handed  her  a  letter  which 
she  had  found  lying  for  her  below. 


£138:1 


XXIII 

MADEMOISELLE  had  begun  to  undress 
when  Germinie  entered  the  room,  took 
a  few  steps,  dropped  upon  a  chair,  and 
almost  immediately  after  giving  two  or  three 
long,  deep  sighs,  heart-heaving  and  mournful, 
mademoiselle  saw  her  fall  writhing  back,  roll  off 
the  chair,  and  sink  upon  the  ground.  She  tried 
to  raise  her,  but  Germinie  was  shaken  by  convul- 
sive movements  of  such  violence  that  the  old 
woman  was  obliged  to  let  the  frenzied  body  fall 
again  to  the  floor  with  its  limbs  contracting 
and  concentrating  for  a  moment  and  then  flying 
out  at  random  right  and  left,  launching  forth 
with  the  click  of  a  released  spring,  and  throwing 
down  everything  with  which  they  came  in  contact. 

At  mademoiselle's  cries  from  the  landing,  a 
servant  ran  to  the  house  of  a  neighboring  doctor, 
whom  she  did  not  find;  four  other  women  belong- 
ing to  the  house  assisted  mademoiselle  to  take  up 
Germinie  and  carry  her  to  the  bed  in  her  mis- 
tress's room,  on  which  she  was  laid,  after  her 
stay-laces  had  been  cut. 

The   terrible   shocks,   the   nervous   slackenings 

CI393 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

of  the  limbs,  and  the  cracking  of  the  tendons  had 
ceased,  but  across  the  neck  and  the  breast,  which 
was  uncovered  by  the  loosening  of  the  dress,  there 
passed  undulating  movements  which  were  like 
waves  raised  beneath  the  skin,  and  which  could 
be  perceived  by  the  quivering  of  the  skirt  to  run 
down  to  the  feet.  With  head  thrown  back,  height- 
ened color,  eyes  full  of  sad  tenderness  —  of  that 
gentle  anguish  to  be  observed  in  the  eyes  of  the 
wounded  —  and  big  veins  tracing  themselves  be- 
neath her  skin,  Germinie,  panting  and  giving  no 
reply  to  the  questions  addressed  to  her,  kept  put- 
ting up  both  hands  to  her  throat  and  neck,  and 
scratching  them;  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pluck 
thence  the  sensation  of  something  rising  and  fall- 
ing within  her. 

It  was  in  vain  that  they  made  her  inhale  ether 
and  drink  orange-flower  water:  the  waves  of  pain 
passing  through  her  body  continued  to  traverse 
her,  and  in  her  countenance  there  remained  per- 
sistently that  same  expression  of  melancholy 
gentleness  and  sentimental  anxiety  which  seemed 
to  add  a  soul-suffering  to  the  flesh-suffering  of  all 
her  features.  For  a  long  time  everything  appeared 
to  wound  her  senses  and  to  affect  them  painfully 
-  the  shining  of  the  light,  the  sound  of  voices, 
and  the  perfume  of  things.  At  last,  suddenly,  at 
the  end  of  an  hour,  tears,  a  deluge  springing 
from  her  eyes,  removed  the  terrible  crisis.  Then 
there  was  only  a  shuddering  at  long  intervals 

C  1403 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

through  her  exhausted  frame,  which  was  soon 
quieted  by  weariness,  by  a  general  collapse.  It 
was  necessary  to  carry  Germinie  to  her  own  room. 
The  letter  which  Adele  had  handed  to  her 
contained  the  tidings  of  her  daughter's  death. 


£1413 


XXIV 

AFTER  this  crisis  Germinie  lapsed  into  a 
stupor  of  grief.  For  months  she  remained 
insensible  to  everything;  for  months  she 
was  completely  invaded  and  filled  by  the  thought 
of  the  little  creature  which  was  no  more,  and  she 
bore  her  child's  death  in  her  bosom  as  she  had 
borne  its  life.  Every  evening  when  she  went  up 
to  her  room,  she  took  her  poor  darling's  cap  and 
vest  out  of  the  trunk  which  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  She  looked  at  them  and  touched  them! 
she  spread  them  out  upon  the  bedclothes;  she 
remained  for  hours  weeping  over  them,  kissing 
them,  speaking  to  them,  uttering  to  them  the 
words  which  afford  a  mother's  sorrow  speech  with 
the  shade  of  a  little  daughter. 

Weeping  for  her  child,  the  unhappy  mother 
wept  for  herself.  A  voice  whispered  to  her  that 
with  the  child  living,  she  was  saved;  that  with 
the  child  to  love,  she  had  a  Providence;  that  all 
that  she  dreaded  in  herself  -  -  her  tenderness,  her 
transports,  her  ardors,  all  the  fires  of  her  nature 
—  would  centre  upon  the  head  of  the  child  and 
there  be  sanctified.  By  anticipation,  she  seemed 
to  feel  the  heart  of  the  mother  soothe  and  purify 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

the  heart  of  the  woman.  In  her  daughter  she 
could  discern  something  celestial  that  would  re- 
deem and  cure  her,  like  a  little  angel  of  deliverance 
issuing  from  her  faults  to  strive  for  her  and  rescue 
her  from  the  evil  influences  which  pursued  her, 
and  by  which  she  sometimes  believed  herself 
possessed. 

When  she  began  to  emerge  from  this  first 
annihilation  of  despair,  when,  with  the  returning 
perception  of  life  and  sensation  of  things,  she 
looked  around  her  with  eyes  that  could  see,  she 
was  roused  from  her  grief  by  a  bitterness  that 
was  keener  still. 

Having  become  too  big  and  heavy  for  the  work 
of  her  dairy,  and  finding  that,  in  spite  of  all  that 
Germinie  did,  she  had  still  too  much  to  do,  Ma- 
dame Jupillon  had  sent  for  a  niece  from  her  own 
district  to  assist  her.  There  was  the  youthfulness 
of  the  country  in  this  girl;  she  was  a  woman  in 
whom  there  was  still  something  of  the  child, 
lively  and  vivacious,  with  dark  eyes  that  were 
full  of  sunshine,  and  lips  full,  round,  and  red, 
like  the  pulp  of  a  cherry,  with  the  summer  of  her 
native  countryside  in  her  complexion,  and  the 
warmth  of  health  in  her  blood. 

Ardent  and  ingenuous,  the  young  girl,  during 
the  first  days  after  her  coming,  had  approached 
her  cousin  naturally  and  simply  from  that  in- 
clination of  like  years  which  prompts  youth  to 
seek  out  youth.  She  had  thrown  herself  in  his 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

way  with  the  shamclcssness  of  innocence,  with 
candid  boldness,  with  the  freedom  taught  by  the 
fields,  with  the  happy  foolishness  of  a  rich  nature, 
with  all  sorts  of  temerities,  ignorances,  bold  frank- 
nesses, and  rustic  coquetries,  against  which  her 
cousin's  vanity  had  been  quite  unable  to  defend 
itself. 

By  the  side  of  this  child,  Germinie  had  no  rest. 
The  young  girl  wounded  her  every  minute  by  her 
presence,  her  contact,  her  caresses,  by  everything 
which  acknowledged  love  in  her  amorous  person. 
Her  engrossment  of  Jupillon,  the  work  which 
brought  her  close  to  him,  the  countrified  amaze- 
ment which  she  displayed  before  him,  the  semi- 
confidences  which  she  allowed  to  come  to  her 
lips  when  the  young  man  was  out,  her  merri- 
ment, her  jokes,  her  healthy  good-humor,  all 
exasperated  Germinie,  all  raised  secret  wrath 
within  her;  all  wounded  that  obstinate  heart 
whose  jealousy  was  such  that  the  very  animals 
made  her  suffer  when  they  seemed  to  love  some 
one  whom  she  loved. 

She  dared  not  speak  to  Mother  Jupillon  and 
denounce  the  girl  to  her  for  fear  of  betraying  her- 
self; but  whenever  she  found  herself  alone  with 
Jupillon,  she  broke  forth  into  recriminations,  com- 
plaints, and  quarrels.  She  would  remind  him  of 
a  circumstance,  a  word,  something  that  he  had 
done,  said,  replied,  some  trifle  forgotten  by  him, 
but  still  sore  within  her. 

C  i44  U 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Are  you  mad?"  said  Jupillon  to  her;  "a 
young  thing  like  that!" 

"A  young  thing,  is  she?  Go  along!  and  she  has 
such  eyes  that  all  the  men  look  at  her  in  the  street. 
The  other  day  I  went  out  with  her,  and  I  was 
ashamed.  I  don't  know  how  she  contrived  it, 
but  we  were  followed  by  a  gentleman  the  whole 
time." 

"Well!  what  of  that?    She's  pretty,  that's  all!" 

Pretty!  Pretty!  And  at  this  word,  Germinie 
flung  herself  upon  the  young  girl's  face,  and  tore 
it  with  savage  words  as  with  claws. 

Often  she  ended  by  saying  to  Jupillon: 

"There!  you  love  her!" 

"Well,  what  then?"  Jupillon  would  reply,  not 
displeased  by  these  disputes,  by  the  sight  and 
sport  afforded  by  the  anger  which  he  used  to  tease 
and  goad,  by  the  amusement  given  him  by  this 
woman,  whom,  beneath  her  sarcasm  and  indiffer- 
ence, he  could  see  half-losing  her  reason,  growing 
distracted,  stumbling  into  incipient  madness,  run- 
ning her  head  against  a  wall. 

As  a  sequel  to  such  scenes  which  recurred  and 
were  repeated  every  day,  a  revolution  was  wrought 
in  this  variable,  extreme,  extravagant  tempera- 
ment, in  this  soul  wherein  violence  jostled  violence. 
Slowly  poisoned,  love  decomposed  and  turned  to 
hate.  Germinie  began  to  detest  her  lover,  and  to 
seek  for  everything  that  could  make  him  more 
detested.  And  as  her  thoughts  reverted  to  her 

C  1453 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

daughter,  to  the  loss  of  her  child,  to  the  cause  of 
its  death,  she  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  he 
who  had  killed  it.  She  conceived  a  horror  of  him, 
shrank  from  him,  fled  from  him  as  from  the  curse 
of  her  life,  with  the  terror  that  is  felt  of  one  who 
is  your  Misfortune! 


£146:1 


XXV 

ONE  morning,  after  a  night  in  which  she  had 
been  revolving  within  her  all  her  thoughts 
of  grief  and    hate,  Germinie,  on  entering 
the  dairy  to  fetch  her  four  sous'  worth  of  milk, 
found  two  or   three   servants   in   the  back-shop 
taking  an  early  dram.    Seated  at  table,  they  were 
sipping  gossip  and  liquor. 

"Hello!"  said  Adele,  striking  her  glass  upon 
the  table,  "is  that  you  already,  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil?" 

"What's  this?"  said  Germinie,  taking  Adele's 
glass.  "  I  want  some." 

"You're  as  thirsty  as  that,  this  morning,  are 
you?  Brandy  and  absinthe,  that's  all.  It's  my 
Tommy's  mixture  —  the  soldier,  don't  you  know? 
He  never  drank  anything  else.  Stiff,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Germinie,  with  the  lip- 
motion  and  eye- wrinkling  of  a  child  who  is  given 
a  glass  of  liquor  at  dessert  at  a  large  dinner-party. 

"It's  good,  all  the  same."     Her  courage  was 
rising.    "Madame  Jupillon  —  the  bottle  this  way 
-  I'll  pay  for  it." 

And  she  threw  the  money  upon  the  table.  After 
three  glasses: 

CI473 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

"I'm  tight!"  she  cried,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter. 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  had  gone  that 
morning  to  receive  the  half-yearly  payment  of 
her  dividends.  When  she  came  back  at  eleven 
o'clock  she  rang  once,  twice,  but  nothing  came 
of  it. 

"Ah!"  she  said  to  herself,  "she's  gone  down- 
stairs." 

She  opened  the  door  with  her  key,  went  to  her 
room  and  entered  it:  the  mattresses  and  sheets 
of  her  bed,  which  was  in  course  of  making,  were 
thrown  back  over  two  chairs;  and  Germinie  was 
stretched  across  the  palliasse,  sleeping,  and  inert 
like  a  mass  of  matter,  in  the  listlessness  of  sudden 
lethargy. 

At  the  sound  of  mademoiselle,  Germinie  sprang 
up,  and  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes: 

"Eh?"  she  said,  as  though  someone  were  calling 
her.  Her  looks  were  dreamy. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil,  in  alarm.  "Did  you  fall?  Are  you 
unwell?" 

"I!  no,"  replied  Germinie.     "I  was  asleep - 
what    o'clock    is    it?      It's    nothing  —  ah!    how 
stupid  - 

And  she  began  to  beat  the  mattress,  turning 
her  back  towards  her  mistress  to  hide  the  color 
that  the  drink  had  brought  into  her  face. 


XXVI 

ONE  Sunday  morning,  Jupillon  was  dressing  in 
the  room  that  Germinie  had  furnished  for 
him.  His  mother  sat  and  watched  him  with 
that  wondering  pride  which  is  to  be  observed  in  the 
eyes  of  the  mothers  of  the  people  when  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  son  who  is  got  up  like  a  "gentleman." 

"You're  dressed  like  the  young  man  on  the 
first  floor!"  she  said  to  him.  "One  would  think 
it  was  his  coat  —  it's  not  right  to  say  it,  but  you 
look  quite  the  swell,  you  do." 

Jupillon,  engaged  in  tying  his  cravat,  did  not 
reply. 

"What  a  lot  of  hearts  you'll  break!"  resumed 
Mother  Jupillon,  giving  her  voice  a  tone  of  caress- 
ing insinuation.  "Listen  to  what  I  say  to  you, 
Bibi,  you  big,  bad  boy:  if  the  lasses  make  slips, 
why,  so  much  the  worse  for  them:  it's  their  own 
lookout  and  their  own  business.  You're  a  man, 
ain't  you,  in  age,  and  constitution  and  every- 
thing? I  can't  always  keep  you  tied  up,  and  so 
I  said  to  myself  as  well  one  as  another  —  so  go 
in  for  her  —  and  I  acted  as  though  I  saw  nothing. 
Well,  yes,  I  mean  Germinie.  As  she  pleased  you, 
and  it  kept  you  from  wasting  your  money  with  bad 

C  M9  U 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

women  —  and  then  I  saw  nothing  inconvenient 
about  the  girl  until  now.  But  it's  come  to  be 
different.  They're  making  remarks  in  the  neigh- 
borhood -  -  telling  a  lot  of  horrible  things  about 
us --the  vipers!  We're  above  all  that,  I  know 
-  when  one's  been  honest  all  one's  life,  thank 
God!  But  one  never  knows  what  may  happen: 
Mademoiselle  would  only  have  to  pry  into  her 
maid's  affairs.  For  my  part,  the  bare  idea  of  a 
court  of  justice  makes  me  dizzy.  What  do  you 
say  to  that,  Bibi,  eh?" 

"Faith!  mother --just  as  you  like." 
"Ah!  I  knew  you  loved  your  dear,  darling 
mammy!"  said  the  monstrous  woman,  kissing 
him.  "Well,  invite  her  to  dinner  this  evening. 
Bring  up  two  bottles  of  our  Lunel,  the  two-franc 
sort  that  gets  into  the  head,  and  make  sure  of 
her  coming.  Be  sweet  with  her,  and  make  her 
believe  that  it's  to  be  a  great  occasion  -  Put 
on  your  best  gloves:  you'll  make  much  more  of 
an  impression  - 

About  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Germinie 
arrived,  full  of  happiness,  cheerfulness  and  hope, 
her  head  filled  with  dreams  and  the  air  of  mystery 
which  Jupillon  had  imparted  owing  to  his  mother's 
invitation.  They  dined,  drank,  and  laughed. 
Mother  Jupillon  began  to  cast  moved,  moist, 
swimming  glances  at  the  couple  seated  in  front 
of  her.  When  at  their  coffee,  she  said,  as  though 
wishing  to  be  alone  with  Germinie: 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Bibi,  you  know  you've  something  to  do  this 
evening." 

Jupillon  went  out.  Madame  Jupillon,  sipping 
her  coffee,  then  turned  towards  Germinie  with 
the  countenance  of  a  mother  asking  for  her 
daughter's  secret,  and  shrouding  her  confession 
beforehand  in  the  forgiveness  of  her  indulgence. 
For  a  moment  the  two  women  remained  thus  in 
silence,  the  one  waiting  for  the  other  to  speak, 
and  the  other  having  the  cry  of  her  heart  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue.  Suddenly,  Germinie  sprang 
from  her  chair,  and  rushed  into  the  big  woman's 
arms: 

"If  you  only  knew,  Madame  Jupillon!" 

She  spoke,  and  wept,  and  kissed. 

"Oh!  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me!     Well, 
yes;    I  do  love  him  —  I  have  had  a  child  by  him 
-it's  true,  I  love  him  —  for  three  years — " 

At  each  word,  Madame  Jupillon's  face  had 
grown  more  chill  and  icy.  She  put  Germinie  from 
her  coldly,  and  in  her  most  doleful  voice,  in  tones 
of  lamentation  and  despairing  grief,  she  began 
to  say,  like  one  choking: 

"Oh,  heavens!  —  you  —  to  tell  such  things  as 
that  to  me  —  his  mother!  —  to  my  face.  Heavens, 
is  it  possible!  My  son!  —  a  child  —  an  innocent 
child!  You  have  been  shameless  enough  to  de- 
bauch him!  And  you  even  tell  me  that  it  was 
you!  No,  it  is  not  possible!  I,  who  had  such  con- 
fidence —  it's  enough  to  kill  me.  There  is  no 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

security  left  in  this  world!  Ah!  mademoiselle,  I 
would  not  have  believed  it  of  you  all  the  same! 
Well!  these  things  do  make  my  head  swim. 
I  tell  you,  it's  a  revelation  to  me  —  I  know  what 
I  am,  and  I'm  likely  to  be  ill  after  it!" 

"Madame  Jupillon!  Madame  Jupillon!"  Ger- 
minie  murmured  in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  ready  to  die 
of  shame  and  grief  on  the  chair  upon  which  she 
had  fallen  back.  $ "  I  ask  your  forgiveness.  It 
was  stronger  than  I.  And  then  _I  thought  —  I 
believed  — " 

"You  believed!  Good  gracious,  you  believed! 
What  did  you  believe?  You,  my  son's  wife,  eh? 
Oh,  Lord!  is  it  possible,  my  poor  child?" 

And  constantly  assuming  a  more  plaintive  and 
mournful  voice  as  she  continued  to  cast  these 
wounding  words  at  Germinie,  Mother  Jupillon 
resumed: 

"But,  come,  my  poor  girl,  people  must  be 
rational.  What  was  it  I  always  said?  That  it 
might  be  done  if  you  were  ten  years  younger. 
You  were  born  in  1820,  as  you  have  told  me,  and 
we're  now  in  1849.  You  see  you're  going  on 
thirty,  my  good  girl.  Look  here,  it  hurts  me  to 
tell  you  this-- I  should  be  so  unwilling  to  give 
you  pain  —  but  one  has  only  to  look  at  you,  my 
poor  lass  -  What  can  you  expect?  It's  age 
-  Your  hair  —  you  might  lay  your  finger  in  the 
parting  - 

"But."  said  Germinie,  within  whom  there  was 


GERMINIE     LACERT EUX 

beginning  a  murmuring  of  sullen  wrath,  "what 
about  the  money  your  son  owes  me  —  my  money? 
The  money  I  drew  out  of  the  savings  bank,  the 
money  I  borrowed  for  him,  the  money  I  — " 

"Ah!  he  owes  you  money?  Why,  yes,  what 
you  lent  him  to  begin  his  trade.  Well,  you  needn't 
make  such  a  fuss.  Do  you  think  that  you've  got 
thieves  to  deal  with?  Do  you  suppose  we  mean 
to  deny  having  had  your  money  from  you,  even 
though  there's  no  receipt  if  you  want  a  proof. 
I  remember  now  -  -  the  honest,  child-like  fellow 
wanted  to  write  one  out,  in  case  he  should  die — 
but,  all  at  once,  people  are  made  pickpockets 
without  more  ado.  Ah,  goodness!  life's  not  worth 
the  having  in  such  times  as  these.  Ah!  I  am  well 
punished  for  becoming  attached  to  you.  But, 
I  tell  you,  I  can  see  it  all  now  clearly  enough. 
Oh!  you  are  shrewd,  you  are.  You  wanted  to 
buy  my  son  for  yourself  and  for  life.  Thank  you, 
I'd  rather  not.  It's  cheaper  to  pay  you  back  your 
money.  The  leavings  of  a  cafe  waiter  —  my  poor, 
dear  child!  —  God  keep  him  from  such  a  thing!" 

Germinie  had  snatched  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
from  the  peg,  and  was  outside. 


XXVII 

MADEMOISELLE  was  seated  in  her  large 
easy-chair  at  the  corner  of  the  fire  place 
in  which  a  few  embers  always  slumbered 
beneath  the  ashes.  Her  black  head-band,  low- 
ered upon  the  wrinkles  of  her  forehead,  fell  almost 
to  her  eyes.  Her  black  dress,  which  was  shaped 
like  a  frock  and  allowed  her  bones  to  project 
through  it,  lay  in  meagre  folds  over  the  meagre- 
ness  of  her  person,  and  fell  straight  down  from 
her  knees.  A  small  black  shawl  was  crossed  and 
fastened  behind  her  back  after  the  fashion  of 
little  girls.  She  had  laid  her  upward-turned  and 
half-opened  hands  upon  her  thighs,  poor,  old 
woman's  hands,  awkward  and  stiff,  and  swollen 
at  the  joints  and  knuckles  by  the  gout. 

Sunk  in  the  bent,  broken-down  attitude  which 
obliges  old  people  to  raise  their  heads  in  order  to 
see  you  and  speak  to  you,  she  lay  in  a  heap,  buried, 
as  it  were,  in  the  darkness  whence  there  emerged 
nothing  but  her  face,  yellowed  by  biliousness  to 
the  tone  of  old  ivory,  and  the  warm  flame  of  her 
brown  eyes.  Looking  at  her,  at  the  living,  cheer- 
ful eyes,  the  miserable  frame,  the  poverty-stricken 
dress,  the  nobility  with  which  she  bore  her  years 

C  1543 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

and  all  her  sorrows,  she  might  have  been  taken 
for  a  fairy  at  the  Petits-Menages. 

Germinie  was  beside  her.     The  old  maid  said: 

"The  cushion  is  under    the    door,    Germinie, 
eh?" 

"Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"Do  you  know,  my  girl,"  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  resumed  after  a  pause,  "do  you  know 
that  when  one  has  been  born  in  one  of  the  hand- 
somest mansions  of  the  Rue  Royale,  and  ought  to 
have  been  the  possessor  of  the  Grand  and  the 
Petit-Charolais,  and  ought  to  have  had  the  cha- 
teau of  Clichy-Ia-Garenne  for  a  country  seat; 
and  when  it  took  two  servants  to  carry  the  silver 
dish  on  which  the  joint  was  served  in  your  grand- 
mother's house  —  do  you  know,  it  requires  a 
good  deal  of  philosophy,"  and  mademoiselle  placed 
a  hand  upon  her  shoulders  with  difficulty  —  "to 
see  oneself  meeting  one's  end  here,  in  this  abomi- 
nably rheumatic  hovel  where,  in  spite  of  all  the 
cushions  in  the  world,  you  get  these  miserable 
draughts.  That's  right,  stir  up  the  fire  a 
little." 

And  stretching  out  her  feet  towards  Germinie, 
who  was  on  her  knees  before  the  fire  place,  and 
laughingly  putting  them  under  her  nose  she  went 
on: 

"Do  you  know  one  wants  a  great  deal  of  that 
philosophy  to  be  able  to  wear  stockings  in  holes! 
Foolish  creature!  I  don't  say  it  to  scold  you;  I 

CI553 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

know  very  well  that  you  can't  do  everything. 
You  might  get  a  woman  to  come  and  do  the 
mending.  That's  not  very  difficult.  Why  don't 
you  tell  the  girl  who  came  last  year?  She  had  a 
face  that  pleased  me." 

"Oh,  she  was  as  black  as  a  mole,  mademoiselle." 

"There  now!  I  was  sure-  To  begin  with, 
you  never  think  well  of  anybody.  That's  so, 
isn't  it?  But  wasn't  she  Mother  Jupillon's  niece? 
We  might  have  her  for  a  day  or  two  in  the 
week  —  " 

"That  strumpet  shall  never  set  foot  in  here 
again. " 

"Come,  more  difficulties!  You  are  wonderful 
at  worshipping  people,  and  then  being  unable  to 
bear  the  sight  of  them.  What  has  she  done  to 
you?" 

"She  is  an  unfortunate,  I  tell  you!" 

"Tut!  what  has  that  to  do  with  my  linen?" 

"  But,  mademoiselle  —  " 

"Well!  find  me  another--!  don't  insist  upon 
her.  But  find  one  for  me. " 

"Oh,  the  women  who  are  brought  in  do  no 
work.  I  will  do  your  mending  myself.  There's 
no  need  for  anyone. " 

'You?  Oh,  if  we  are  to  reckon  upon  your 
needle!"  said  mademoiselle,  gaily;  "and  be- 
sides, Mother  Jupillon  will  never  leave  you  the 
time- 

" Mademoiselle  Jupillon?    Ah!  yes  she  will,  for 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

all   the   dust   that    I    shall   make   in   her   house 
now!" 

"What?  She,  too?  is  she  thrown  aside?  Oh, 
ho!  Make  haste  and  make  another  acquaintance, 
or  else,  good  gracious!  there  will  be  bad  times  in 
store  for  us!" 


£157:1 


XXVIII 

THE  winter  of  that  year  ought  to  have  en- 
sured a  portion  in  Paradise  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil.      She  had  to  endure  all  the 
reaction  of  her  servant's  grief,  the  torment  from 
her  nerves,  the  vengeance  of  her  provoked  and 
sour  temper,  to  which  the  approach  of  spring  was 
soon  to  impart  that  kind  of  wicked  madness  which 
accrues   to  sickly   sensibilities    from    the    critical 
season,    the   birth-time   of   nature,    the   restless, 
irritating  fecundation  of  summer. 

Germinie  began  to  have  dried  eyes,  eyes  which 
had  been  weeping  though  they  had  ceased  to 
weep.  She  uttered  an  everlasting:  'There's 
nothing  the  matter  with  me,  mademoiselle," 
spoken  in  that  hollow  tone  which  stifles  a  secret. 
She  assumed  mute  and  grief-stricken  postures, 
funeral  attitudes,  and  airs  of  the  kind  with  which 
a  woman's  person  will  set  forth  sadness  and  make 
her  shadow  a  trouble.  With  her  face,  her  looks, 
her  mouth,  the  folds  of  her  dress,  her  presence, 
with  the  noise  that  she  made  when  walking  in 
the  adjoining  apartment,  with  her  very  silence, 
she  enwrapped  mademoiselle  in  the  despair  of  her 
person.  At  the  least  word  she  would  bristle  up. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Mademoiselle  could  not  make  a  remark  to  her, 
ask  her  for  the  slightest  thing,  or  express  a  wish, 
a  desire:  she  took  everything  as  a  reproach. 
Thereupon  she  would  indulge  in  ferocious  out- 
bursts. She  would  grumble  and  weep: 

"Ah!  I  am  very  unfortunate!  I  can  see  quite 
well  that  mademoiselle  does  not  like  me  any  more." 

Her  fancies  against  people  found  vent  in  sub- 
lime grumblings.  "She  always  comes  when  it's 
wet,"  she  would  say  on  finding  a  little  mud  left 
on  the  carpet  by  Madame  de  Belleuse.  During 
the  first  week  of  the  New  Year,  the  week  when 
all  who  were  left  of  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil's 
relations  and  connections,  without  exception,  rich 
and  poor,  ascended  to  her  fifth  story  and  waited  on 
the  landing  at  the  door  to  relieve  one  another  in 
the  six  chairs  in  her  room,  Germinie's  ill  temper, 
impertinent  remarks,  and  sullen  complaints  were 
increased.  She  would  continually  imagine  in- 
juries on  her  mistress's  part,  and  punish  her  by 
a  dumbness  which  nothing  could  break.  Then 
would  come  fits  of  weakness.  All  round  her, 
mademoiselle  could  hear  through  the  partitions 
furious  strokes  of  broom  and  feather-brush,  scrub- 
bings,  jerky  flappings,  and  all  the  nervous  work 
of  a  servant  who,  by  abusing  the  furniture,  seems 
to  say: 

"Well,  you're  getting  your  work  done,  at  any 
rate!" 

Old  people  are  patient  with  old  servants.    Habit, 

CI593 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

slackened  will-power,  horror  of  change,  dread  of 
new  faces,  everything  inclines  them  to  weakness, 
concession,  cowardice.  In  spite  of  her  quickness, 
her  readiness  to  become  angry,  to  break  out,  to 
rage  and  fume,  mademoiselle  said  nothing.  She 
appeared  to  see  nothing.  She  made  a  pretence 
of  reading  when  Germinie  entered.  Ensconced 
in  her  chair,  she  would  wait  until  her  maid's 
temper  passed  off  or  burst  forth.  She  stooped 
beneath  the  storm;  she  had  neither  word  nor 
thought  of  bitterness  against  her  maid.  She  only 
pitied  her  so  greatly  that  she  herself  suffered  as 
much. 

In  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil's  view  Germinie 
was,  in  fact,  not  a  servant;  she  was  Devotion, 
and,  as  such,  must  necessarily  cause  her  to  close 
her  eyes.  This  isolated  old  woman  whom  death 
had  forgotten,  and  who,  at  the  end  of  her  life, 
found  herself  alone,  and  dragging  her  affections 
from  grave  to  grave,  had  found  her  last  friend 
in  her  servant.  She  had  bestowed  her  heart 
upon  her,  as  upon  an  adopted  daughter,  and  she 
was  especially  unhappy  at  being  unable  to  com- 
fort her.  Moreover,  Germinie  would,  at  times, 
come  back  to  her  out  of  the  depths  of  her  gloomy 
melancholy  and  evil  temper,  and  throw  herself 
upon  her  knees  before  her  kindness.  Suddenly 
a  ray  of  sunshine,  a  beggar's  song,  a  trifle  such 
as  will  pass  through  the  air,  and  unbend  the  soul, 
would  cause  her  to  melt  into  tears  and  endear- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ments;  she  would  indulge  in  burning  effusiveness, 
in  delighted  kissing,  as  in  an  all-effacing  joy  at 
being  alive  once  more.  At  other  times  it  was 
over  some  small  ailment  of  mademoiselle's;  and 
the  old  servant  immediately  recovered  her  smiling 
face  and  gentle  hands. 

Sometimes    on    these   occasions,    mademoiselle 
used  to  say  to  her: 

"Come,  my  girl,  there  is  something  the  matter 
with  you.     Come,  tell  me?" 
And  Germinie  would  reply: 
"No,  mademoiselle,  it  is  the  weather." 
"The  weather!"  mademoiselle  would  repeat  with 
a  doubtful  air,  "the  weather!" 


XXIX 

ONE  evening  in  March,  Mother  Jupillon  and 
her  son  were  talking  at  the  corner  of  their 
stove  in  the  back-shop. 

Jupillon  had  just  been  drawn  for  the  army. 
The  money  which  his  mother  had  set  aside  for 
buying  him  off  had  been  consumed  by  six  months 
of  bad  trade,  by  credits  given  to  girls  living  in 
the  same  street  who  one  fine  morning  had  put 
their  key  under  the  door-mat.  He  himself  was 
in  a  bad  way  and  had  an  execution  in  his  place. 
During  the  day  he  had  gone  to  a  former  employer 
to  ask  him  to  make  him  an  advance  in  order  to 
procure  a  man  in  his  place.  But  the  old  perfumer 
had  not  forgiven  him  for  having  left  him  and  set 
up  for  himself,  and  he  had  refused  point-blank. 
Mother  Jupillon  was  in  grief  and  was  giving 
way  to  tearful  lamentations.  She  kept  repeating 
the  number  drawn  by  her  son: 

"Twenty-two!  twenty-two!"  And  she  said: 
"Yet  I  sewed  a  black,  velvety  spider  and  its  web 
into  your  coat.  Ah!  I  ought  rather  to  have  done 
as  I  was  told,  and  put  on  you  the  cap  you  were 
baptized  in.  Ah!  the  good  God  is  not  just.  And 
to  think  of  the  fruit-seller's  son  getting  a  good 

C  162;] 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

one.  So  much  for  being  honest!  And  the  two 
baggages  at  number  18  who  have  just  taken  to 
their  heels  with  my  money.  They  might  well 
give  me  their  hand-shakings.  Do  you  know  that 
they  are  in  my  debt  for  more  than  seven  hundred 
francs?  And  the  blackamoor  over  the  way  - 
and  that  little  fright  who  had  the  face  to  eat  pots 
of  raspberries  at  twenty  francs  each  —  what  they 
have  robbed  me  of  besides!  But  there,  you're 
not  gone  yet,  all  the  same.  I'll  sell  the  dairy  first. 
I'll  go  back  to  service,  I'll  be  a  cook,  I'll  be  a  char- 
woman, I'll  be  anything  at  all.  Why,  I'd  draw 
money  from  a  stone  for  you/" 

Jupillon  smoked  and  let  his  mother  talk.  When 
she  had  finished: 

"  Enough  said,  mother  —  all  that's  nothing  but 
words,"  he  remarked.  "You're  plaguing  your 
digestion  and  it's  not  worth  while.  There's  no 
need  for  you  to  sell  anything.  There's  no  need 
for  you  to  put  yourself  about.  What  will  you  bet 
that  I  buy  myself  off  without  its  costing  you  a 
sou?" 

"Lord!"  said  Madame  Jupillon. 
"I've  a  notion  of  my  own." 
And  after  a  pause,  Jupillon  went  on: 
"I  didn't  want  to  thwart  you  about  Germinie 
—  at  the  time  of  the  gossip,   you   know --you 
thought  it  was  time  for  me  to  break  with  her  - 
that  she  would  get  us  into  a  scrape  —  and  you 
turned  her  out,  straight.     That  wasn't  my  plan 

£163:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

-I  didn't  think  her  so  bad  as  all  that  for  the 
butter  in  the  place.  But  after  all  you  thought  you 
were  doing  right.  And  perhaps,  in  fact,  you  did 
do  right;  instead  of  quieting  her  you  have  kindled 
her  for  me  —  just  kindled.  I've  met  her  once  or 
twice  —  and  she's  changed  —  Ay,  she's  pining 
away!" 

"But  you  know  quite  well  she  hasn't  another 

»> 
sou  — 

"Of  her  own,  I  daresay.  But  what  of  that? 
she'll  get  some  —  she's  good  still  for  two  thousand 
three  hundred  francs,  there!" 

"And  if  you  are  compromised?" 

"Oh,  she  won't  steal  them  - 

"Goodness  knows!" 

"Well!  it  will  only  be  from  her  mistress.  Do 
you  think  her  mademoiselle  will  have  her  run  in 
for  that?  She'll  discharge  her,  and  the  thing  will 
go  no  further.  We'll  advise  her  to  take  a  change  of 
air  in  another  neighborhood,  and  we'll  see  no  more 
of  her.  But  it  would  be  too  stupid  of  her  to  steal. 
She'll  make  arrangements,  and  search,  and  manage 
- 1  don't  know  how,  indeed,  but,  you  know, 
that's  her  own  lookout.  It's  a  time  for  showing 
off  one's  talents.  In  fact,  you  don't  know,  but 
they  say  her  old  woman  is  ill.  If  the  worthy 
damsel  were  to  go  off  and  leave  her  all  her  nick- 
nacks,  as  people  are  saying  in  the  neighborhood 
-  what  then?  It  would  be  pretty  foolish  to  have 
sent  her  to  the  right  about  then,  eh,  mammy? 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

You  have  to  go  a  little  carefully,  you  see,  when 
you're  dealing  with  people  who  may  fall  into 
four  or  five  thousand  francs  a  year. " 

"Goodness!  —  what's  that  you're  telling  me! 
But  after  the  scene  I  had  with  her  —  Oh,  no! 
she'll  never  be  willing  to  come  back  here  again." 

"Well!  I'll  bring  her  back  —  and  not  later  than 
this  evening,"  said  Jupillon,  getting  up  and  rolling 
a  cigarette  between  his  fingers. 

"No  excuses,  you  understand,"  he  said  to  his 
mother,   "it  would  be  useless.     And  coldness - 
seem  to  receive  her  only  from  weakness,  on  my 
account.    One  doesn't  know  what  may  happen." 


XXX 

JUPILLON  was  walking  backwards  and  for- 
wards on  the  pavement  in  front  of  Germinie's 
house,  when  Germinie  came  out. 

"Good-evening,  Germinie,"  he  said,  just  be- 
hind her. 

She  turned  round  as  though  she  had  been  struck, 
and,  without  answering  him,  instinctively  took 
two  or  three  steps  forward,  and  away  from  him. 

"Germinie!" 

Jupillon  said  only  this  to  her,  without  stirring, 
without  following  her.  She  came  back  to  him,  as 
an  animal  is  brought  back  to  the  hand  by  drawing 
in  its  cord. 

"What?"  she  said.  "Money  again?  or  some  of 
your  mother's  follies  that  you  have  to  tell  me?" 

"No,  it's  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  away," 
said  Jupillon  to  her  with  a  grave  air.  "I've  been 
drawn  for  the  army,  and  I'm  leaving." 

"You  are  leaving?"  she  said.  Her  ideas  seemed 
to  be  not  yet  awake. 

"Look  here,  Germinie,"  returned  Jupillon,  "I've 
given  you  pain.  I've  not  been  kind  to  you,  I 
know.  It  was  partly  cousin.  What  could  I  do?" 

''You  are  leaving?"  returned  Germinie,  taking 
£166;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

hold  of  his  arm.     "Do  not  lie,  you  are  leaving?** 

"I  tell  you,  yes,  and  it's  true.  I  am  only  wait- 
ing for  my  orders.  They  want  more  than  two 
thousand  francs  for  a  man  this  year.  It  is  said 
that  there's  going  to  be  a  war;  in  short,  it's  a 
chance." 

While  he  was  speaking  he  was  making  Ger- 
minie  walk  down  the  street. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  she  said  to  him. 

'To  mother's  —  to  have  you  both  friends  again, 
and  put  an  end  to  all  this  fuss  - 

"After  what  she  said  to  me?  Never!"  And 
Germinie  pushed  away  Jupillon's  arm. 

;<Then  if  that's  so,  good-bye  - 

And  Jupillon  raised  his  cap. 

"Am  I  to  write  to  you  from  the  regiment?" 

For  an  instant  Germinie  was  silent,  for  a  moment 
she  hesitated.  Then  she  said  abruptly: 

"Come  on,"  and  signing  to  Jupillon  to  walk 
beside  her,  she  went  up  the  street  again. 

They  both  began  to  walk  beside  each  other 
without  speaking.  They  reached  a  paved  road, 
which  retreated  and  extended  eternally  between 
two  lines  of  lamps,  between  two  rows  of  twisted 
trees  that  threw  up  handfuls  of  dry  branches 
towards  heaven,  and  overlaid  large,  smooth  walls 
with  their  lean  and  motionless  shadows.  There 
beneath  a  sky  that  was  keen  and  cold  with  a 
reflection  of  snow,  they  walked  for  a  long  time, 
diving  into  the  vagueness,  and  infinity,  and 

CI673 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

strangeness  that  belong  to  a  street  which  ever 
follows  the  same  line  of  wall,  the  same  lamps, 
which  ever  leads  towards  the  same  night.  The 
dark  and  heavy  air  which  they  were  breathing 
savored  of  sugar,  and  sweat,  and  carrion.  Now 
and  then  a  kind  of  flaming  light  passed  before 
their  eyes:  it  was  a  cart,  the  lantern  of  which 
shone  on  disemboweled  beasts,  and  pieces  of 
bleeding  meat  thrown  over  the  crupper  of  a 
white  horse:  the  light  on  the  flesh  streamed 
through  the  darkness  like  a  conflagration  of  purple, 
like  a  furnace  of  blood. 

"Well?  have  you  finished  your  reflections?" 
said  Jupillon.  'This  little  Avenue  Trudaine  of 
yours  is  not  particularly  cheerful,  do  you  know?" 

"Come  on,"  said  Germinie. 

And,  without  speaking,  she  again  began  to 
walk  in  the  same  abrupt  and  violent  fashion 
which  showed  the  agitation  of  all  the  tumults  in 
her  soul.  Her  thoughts  passed  into  her  gestures. 
Distraction  visited  her  footsteps,  and  madness 
her  hands.  Now  and  then  she  had  the  shadow  of 
a  woman  belonging  to  the  Salpetriere  behind  her. 
Two  or  three  passers-by  stopped  for  a  moment 
and  looked  at  her;  then,  being  Parisians,  they 
passed  on. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
spairing resolve. 

"Ah  dear!"  she  said,  "one  pin  more  in  the  pin- 
cushion. Come!" 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

And  she  took  Jupillon's  arm. 

"Oh!  I  know  very  well,"  said  Jupillon  to  her, 
when  they  were  close  to  the  dairy,  "my  mother 
has  not  been  fair  to  you.  You  see,  she's  always 
been  too  respectable  a  woman  all  her  life;  she 
doesn't  know,  she  doesn't  understand.  And  then, 
look  here,  I'll  tell  you  what's  at  the  bottom  of 
the  whole  thing:  she's  so  fond  of  me  herself  that 
she's  jealous  of  the  women  who  like  me.  Just 
go  in  there!" 

And  he  pushed  her  into  the  arms  of  Madame 
Jupillon,  who  kissed  her,  muttered  some  words 
of  regret,  and  hastened  to  cry  in  order  to  relieve 
her  embarrassment  and  to  render  the  scene  more 
affecting. 

The  whole  of  that  evening  Germinie  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  on  Jupillon,  almost  frightening  him 
with  her  look. 

"Come,"  he  said  to  her  as  he  was  taking  her 
home,  "don't  be  such  a  wet-blanket  as  all  that. 
People  need  philosophy  in  this  world.  Why,  I'm 
a  soldier,  that's  all!  They  don't  always  come 
back,  it's  true,  but  after  all  -  Look  here!  I'd 
like  us  to  amuse  ourselves  for  the  fortnight  that 
I've  got  left,  because  it  will  be  so  much  gained, 
and  if  I  don't  come  back,  well!  I'll  at  least  have 
left  you  with  a  pleasant  recollection  of  me." 

Germinie  made  no  reply. 


XXXI 

FOR  a  week  Germinie  did  not  set  foot  again 
in  the  shop.    The  Jupillons,  not  seeing  her 
come  back,  were  beginning  to  despair.    At 
last,  about  half-past  ten  one  evening,  she  pushed 
open  the  door,  walked  in  without  salutation  of  any 
kind,  went  up  to  the  little  table  at  which  mother 
and  son  were  sitting  half  asleep,  and  laid  down 
an  old  piece  of  linen,  with  her  hand  closed  upon 
it  in  a  claw-like  grip. 
"There!"  she  said. 

Letting  go  the  corners  of  the  piece  of  linen  she 
poured  out  what  was  inside  of  it,  and  there 
streamed  upon  the  table  greasy  bank-notes  pasted 
together  behind  or  fastened  with  pins,  old  louis 
d'or  that  had  grown  green,  hundred-sou  pieces 
that  were  perfectly  black,  forty-sou  pieces,  ten- 
sou  pieces  —  money  of  poverty,  of  labor,  of  the 
money-box,  money  soiled  by  dirty  hands,  chafed 
in  the  leathern  purse,  worn  among  the  sous  that 
filled  the  till  —  money  that  savored  of  sweat. 
For  a  moment  she  looked  at  all  that  was  spread 
out  before  her  as  though  to  convince  her  own 
eyes;  then  in  a  sad  and  gentle  voice,  the  voice  of 
her  sacrifice,  she  said  simply  to  Madame  Jupillon, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"There  it  is.  That's  the  two  thousand  three 
hundred  francs  to  buy  himself  off  with." 

"Ah,  my  good  Germinie!"  said  the  big  woman, 
choking  with  a  first  rush  of  emotion;  and  she 
threw  herself  upon  Germinie's  neck,  who  allowed 
herself  to  be  kissed.  "Oh!  you  will  take  some- 
thing with  us,  a  cup  of  coffee  - 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Germinie,  "I'm  worn 
out,  and  I've  had  to  run  about,  upon  my  word, 
to  get  them.  I'm  going  to  bed.  Another  time." 
And  she  went  out. 

She  had  had  to  "run  about"  as  she  said  to 
collect  such  a  sum,  to  realize  this  impossible  thing, 
to  find  two  thousand  three  hundred  francs  whereof 
she  had  not  the  first  five!  She  had  searched  for 
them,  begged  them,  picked  them  up  piece  by 
piece,  almost  sou  by  sou.  She  had  gathered  them, 
scraped  them  up  here  and  there,  one  after  another, 
by  loans  of  two  francs,  of  a  hundred  francs,  of 
fifty  francs,  of  twenty  francs,  of  whatever  people 
would  give.  She  had  borrowed  from  her  porter, 
her  grocer,  her  fruiterer,  her  poulterer,  her  laun- 
dress; she  had  borrowed  from  the  tradesmen  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  from  the  tradesmen  of 
the  neighborhoods  in  which  she  had  at  first  lived 
with  mademoiselle.  She  had  swept  every  kind 
of  money  into  the  sum  down  to  the  miserable 
pittance  of  her  water-carrier.  She  had  begged 
everywhere,  extorted  humbly,  prayed,  entreated, 
invented  stories,  swallowed  her  shame  at  lying 

c  171:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

and  seeing  that  she  was  not  believed.  The  humil- 
iation of  confessing  that  she  had  no  money  in- 
vested, as  people  had  believed,  and  as  she,  in  her 
pride,  had  allowed  them  to  believe,  the  commisera- 
tion of  persons  whom  she  despised,  refusals,  alms 
-  she  had  submitted  to  all  these,  had  endured 
what  she  would  not  have  endured  to  find  herself 
bread,  and  not  once  and  with  a  single  individual, 
but  with  thirty  or  forty,  with  all  who  had  ever 
given  her  anything,  or  from  whom  she  had  ex- 
pected anything. 

At  last  she  had  got  the  money  together,  but  it 
was  her  master,  and  possessed  her  for  ever.  She 
belonged  to  the  obligations  which  existed  between 
her  and  others,  to  the  service  which  her  tradesmen, 
well  aware  of  what  they  were  doing,  had  rendered 
her.  She  belonged  to  her  debts,  to  what  she  would 
have  to  pay  every  year.  She  knew  it;  she  knew 
that  all  her  wages  would  be  absorbed  in  this  way, 
that  with  the  usurious  arrangements  left  by  her 
to  the  will  of  her  creditors,  and  the  acknowl- 
edgments that  they  had  required,  mademoiselle's 
three  hundred  francs  would  do  little  more  than 
pay  the  interest  of  her  loan  of  two  thousand 
three  hundred  francs.  She  knew  that  she  would  be 
a  debtor,  that  she  would  always  be  a  debtor,  that 
she  would  be  bound  for  ever  to  privations,  to 
embarrassment,  to  every  possible  retrenchment 
in  dress  and  toilet. 

She  entertained  scarcely  more  illusions  respect- 
£172:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ing  the  Jupillons  than  she  did  about  her  future. 
Her  money  with  them  was  lost  —  of  this  she  had 
a  presentiment.  She  had  not  even  calculated  that 
the  sacrifice  would  touch  the  young  man.  She 
had  acted  on  a  first  impulse.  If  she  had  been  told 
to  die  in  order  to  prevent  his  departure,  she 
would  have  died.  The  thought  of  seeing  him  a 
soldier,  the  thought  of  the  battlefield,  of  the 
cannon,  of  the  wounded,  at  which  a  woman  closes 
her  eyes  in  terror,  had  induced  her  to  do  more  than 
die;  to  sell  her  life  for  this  man,  and,  for  his  sake, 
to  sign  her  own  everlasting  misery! 


CI73: 


XXXII 

IT  is  an  ordinary  result  of  nervous  disturbances 
in  the  organism  to  disorder  human  joys  and 
sorrows,  to  deprive  them  of  proportion  and 
equilibrium,  and  to  push  them  to  the  extreme  of 
excess.  It  would  seem  that  under  the  influence 
of  this  disease  of  impressibility,  the  senses  become 
quickened,  refined,  spiritualized,  they  exceed  their 
natural  measure  and  limit,  pass  beyond  them- 
selves, and  impart  a  sort  of  infinitude  to  the 
enjoyment  and  suffering  of  the  creature.  The 
infrequent  joys  which  Germinie  still  had  were 
now  mad  joys,  joys  from  which  she  emerged  in- 
toxicated and  with  the  physical  characteristics 
of  intoxication. 

"Why,  my  girl,"  mademoiselle  could  not  help 
saying  to  her,  "one  would  think  you  were  drunk." 

And  when  she  relapsed  into  her  troubles,  and 
sorrows,  and  anxieties,  her  affliction  would  be 
still  more  intense,  more  frenzied  and  delirious  than 
her  mirth. 

The  time  had  come  when  the  terrible  truth,  of 
which  she  had  caught  a  glimpse,  but  which  had 
then  been  veiled  by  later  illusions,  finally  appeared 
to  Germinie.  She  saw  that  she  had  not  been  able 

CI74I1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

to  attach  Jupillon  to  her  by  the  devotion  of  her 
love,  by  the  spoliation  of  all  that  she  possessed, 
by  all  these  money  sacrifices  which  were  involving 
her  life  in  the  embarrassment  and  agony  of  a 
debt  that  it  was  impossible  to  pay.  She  felt  that 
he  brought  her  his  love  with  reluctance,  a  love 
to  which  he  imparted  the  humiliation  of  a  charity. 
When  she  informed  him  that  she  was  pregnant 
for  a  second  time,  this  man,  whom  she  was  about 
to  make  a  father,  had  said  to  her: 

"Well!  women  like  you  are  a  good  joke!  always 
full  or  ready  to  begin  again!'* 

Thoughts  came  to  her,  suspicions  such  as  come 
to  genuine  love  when  it  is  deceived,  forebodings 
of  the  heart  which  tell  women  that  they  are  no 
longer  in  sole  possession  of  their  lovers,  and  that 
there  is  another  because  there  must  be  another. 

She  had  ceased  to  complain,  to  weep,  to  re- 
criminate. She  gave  up  striving  with  this  man 
who  was  armed  with  coldness,  and  who  so  well 
knew  how  to  outrage  her  passion,  her  unreason, 
her  tender  follies,  with  his  icy,  blackguard  ironies. 
And  she  set  herself  to  wait  in  resigned  anguish 
for  —  what?  She  did  not  know;  perhaps,  until 
he  would  have  no  more  of  her! 

Heart-broken  and  silent  she  spied  upon  Jupillon; 
she  dogged  him  and  watched  him;  she  tried  to 
make  him  speak  by  throwing  in  a  word  when  he 
was  inattentive.  She  revolved  about  him,  seeing, 
apprehending,  surprising  nothing,  but  remaining, 

n  1753 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

nevertheless,  persuaded  that  there  was  something 
and  that  what  she  dreaded  was  true;  she  scented 
a  woman  in  the  air. 

One  morning,  having  come  down  earlier  than 
usual,  she  saw  him  on  the  pavement  a  few  steps 
in  front  of  her.  He  was  dressed,  and  kept  looking 
at  himself  as  he  walked.  From  time  to  time  he 
raised  the  edge  of  his  trousers  a  little,  to  see  the 
polish  on  his  boots.  She  began  to  follow  him. 
He  went  straight  on  without  turning.  She  reached 
the  Place  Breda  behind  him;  on  the  Place,  be- 
side the  cabstand,  a  woman  was  walking  up  and 
down.  Germinie  could  see  only  her  back.  Jupil- 
lon  went  up  to  her,  and  the  woman  turned:  it 
was  his  cousin. 

They  began  to  walk  to  and  fro  beside  each 
other  on  the  Place;  then  they  proceeded  through 
the  Rue  Breda  towards  the  Rue  de  Navarin. 
There  the  young  girl  took  Jupillon's  arm,  not 
leaning  on  it  at  first,  but  afterwards,  as  they 
walked  on,  stooping  gradually  with  the  move- 
ment of  a  bending  bough,  and  leaning  upon  him. 
They  walked  slowly,  so  slowly  that  Germinie  was 
sometimes  obliged  to  stop  in  order  not  to  be  too 
close  to  them.  They  went  up  the  Rue  des  Martyrs, 
crossed  the  Rue  de  la  Tour-d'Auvergne,  and  went 
down  the  Rue  Montholon.  Jupillon  was  speaking; 
the  cousin  was  saying  nothing,  was  listening  to 
Jupillon,  and,  absent  as  a  woman  inhaling  a  bou- 
quet, was  casting  vague  little  side-looks  from 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

time  to  time,  little  glances  like  those  of  a  fright- 
ened child. 

On  reaching  the  Rue  Lamartine  in  front  of  the 
Passage  des  Deux-Soeurs,  they  turned  back;  Ger- 
minie  had  only  just  time  to  spring  into  an  entry. 
They  passed  without  seeing  her.  The  girl  was 
grave,  and  slow  in  walking.  Jupillon  was  talking 
close  to  her  neck.  For  a  moment  they  stopped, 
Jupillon  making  great  gestures,  and  the  young 
girl  looking  fixedly  on  the  pavement.  Germinie 
thought  that  they  were  going  to  part;  but  they 
again  began  to  walk  together  and  took  four  or 
five  turns,  passing  and  repassing  in  front  of  the 
Passage. 

At  last  they  entered  it.  Germinie  darted  from 
her  hiding-place,  and  leaped  after  them.  From 
the  grating  of  the  Passage  she  could  see  part  of  a 
dress  disappearing  within  the  doorway  of  a  small 
private  house,  next  door  to  the  shop  of  a  liquor- 
dealer.  She  hastened  to  the  doorway,  looked  at 
the  staircase,  could  see  nothing  more.  Then  all 
her  blood  mounted  to  her  head  with  a  thought,  a 
single  thought  which  her  idiotic  lips  kept  repeating: 
"Vitriol!  —  Vitriol!  --  Vitriol!"  And  her  thought 
becoming  instantly  the  very  action  of  her  thought, 
her  frenzy  transporting  her  suddenly  into  her 
crime,  she  was  ascending  the  stairs  with  the  bottle 
well  hidden  beneath  her  shawl;  she  was  knocking 
continuously  and  very  loudly  at  the  door.  Some 
one  came  at  last;  he  half  opened  the  door.  She 

CI773 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

passed  without  paying  any  attention  to  him. 
She  was  capable  of  killing  him!  —  and  she  was 
going  up  to  the  bed,  to  her!  She  was  taking  her 
by  the  arm,  and  saying  to  her:  "Yes,  'tis  I- 
this  will  last  you  your  life!'*  And  over  her  face, 
her  breast,  her  skin,  over  all  that  was  young  in 
her,  and  proud,  and  beautiful  for  love,  Germinie 
could  see  the  vitriol  marking,  burning,  hollowing, 
bubbling,  making  something  that  was  horrible 
and  that  flooded  her  with  joy.  The  bottle  was 
empty  and  she  was  laughing. 

And  in  her  frightful  dream,  her  body  also 
dreaming,  her  feet  began  to  walk.  Her  steps 
went  on  before  her,  passed  down  the  Passage, 
entered  the  street,  and  took  her  to  the  grocer's. 
For  ten  minutes  she  stood  by  the  counter  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing,  the  vacant,  bewildered 
eyes  of  one  bent  on  murder. 

"Come,  what  do  you  want?"  said  the  shop- 
woman  to  her,  out  of  patience,  and  almost  fright- 
ened at  this  motionless  woman. 

"What  do  I  want?"  said  Germinie.  She  was 
so  full  of  and  so  possessed  by  what  she  desired, 
that  she  thought  she  had  asked  for  the  vitriol. 
"What  do  I  want?"  And  she  drew  her  hand 
across  her  forehead.  "Ah!  I  have  forgotten." 

And  she  went  stumbling  out  of  the  shop. 


XXXIII 

AMID  the  torture  of  a  life  in  which  she 
suffered  death  and  passion,  Germinie,  seek- 
ing to  deaden  the  horrors  of  her  thoughts, 
had  gone  back  to  the  glass  which  she  had  taken 
from  Adele's  hands  one  morning,  and  which  had 
given  her  a  whole  day  of  forgetfulness.  From 
that  day  she  had  begun  to  drink.  She  had  drunk 
little  morning  "sips,"  like  the  maids  of  kept 
women.  She  had  drunk  with  one  and  drunk  with 
another.  She  had  drunk  with  men  who  came  to 
breakfast  at  the  dairy.  She  had  drunk  with 
Adele,  who  drank  like  a  man,  and  who  took  a  vile 
pleasure  in  seeing  this  honest  woman's  maid  sink- 
ing as  low  as  herself. 

At  first,  in  order  to  be  able  to  drink,  she  had 
required  temptation,  society,  the  clinking  of 
glasses,  the  excitement  of  language,  the  warmth 
of  a  challenge;  soon  afterwards,  she  came  to 
drink  when  alone.  Then  it  was  that  she  had 
drunk  from  the  half-filled  glass  brought  upstairs 
under  her  apron  and  hidden  in  a  corner  of  the 
kitchen;  that  in  solitude  and  despair  she  had 
drunk  those  mixtures  of  white  wine  and  brandy 
which  she  swallowed  continuously,  until  she  had 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

found  in  them  that  for  which  she  was  thirsting 
-  sleep.  For  what  she  desired  was  not  the  heady 
fever,  the  happy  confusion,  the  living  madness, 
the  waking  and  delirious  dream  of  intoxication; 
what  she  desired,  what  she  asked  for,  was  the 
dark  happiness  of  sleep,  of  unremembering  and 
dreamless  sleep,  of  leaden  sleep  falling  upon  her 
like  a  bludgeon  on  the  head  of  an  ox:  and  she 
found  it  in  those  blended  liquors  which  crushed 
her  and  brought  her  head  to  lie  upon  the  cloth 
of  her  kitchen  table. 

To  sleep  such  overwhelming  sleep,  to  sink  in 
the  daytime  into  such  a  night,  had  come  to  be 
with  her  a  truce  to,  and  a  deliverance  from,  a 
manner  of  life  which  she  had  lost  courage  either 
to  continue  or  to  end.  A  boundless  yearning  for 
non-existence  was  all  that  she  felt  in  her  wakeful- 
ness.  Such  hours  of  her  life  as  she  lived  collectedly, 
under  self-inspection,  looking  into  her  conscience, 
a  spectator  of  all  her  shamefulness,  seemed  so 
abominable  to  her!  She  preferred  to  be  dead  to 
them.  Nothing  in  the  world  but  sleep  was  left 
to  her  that  would  give  her  complete  forgetfulness, 
the  congested  sleep  of  Drunkenness  which  cradles 
in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Here,  in  the  glass  which  she  forced  herself  to 
drink,  and  which  she  emptied  with  frenzy,  her 
sufferings,  her  griefs,  the  whole  of  her  horrible 
present  would  drown  and  disappear.  Within  half- 
an-hour  her  thought  ceased  to  think,  her  life  to  be; 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

all  that  she  was  had,  to  her,  no  further  existence, 
and  even  time  was  no  longer  with  her.  "I  am 
drowning  my  troubles,"  she  had  replied  to  a 
woman  who  had  told  her  that  she  would  ruin  her 
health  by  drinking.  And  as  during  the  re-actions 
which  followed  her  periods  of  intoxication,  there 
returned  to  her  a  more  painful  self-consciousness, 
a  greater  grieving  and  detestation  for  her  faults 
and  her  misfortunes,  she  sought  out  stronger 
alcohol,  rawer  brandy,  she  even  drank  absinthe 
pure  in  order  to  lapse  into  a  duller  lethargy,  and 
to  render  her  insensibility  to  all  things  still  more 
complete. 

Finally  she  succeeded  in  inducing  periods  of 
annihilation  which  lasted  half  a  day,  and  from 
which  she  emerged  only  partially  awake,  with 
stupefied  intellect,  blunted  perceptions,  hands 
which  did  things  simply  from  habit,  gestures  like 
those  of  a  somnambulist,  a  body  and  soul  in  which 
thought,  will,  and  memory  seemed  to  be  still 
slumbering  and  dim  as  in  the  hazy  hours  of 
morning. 


XXXIV 

HALF-AN-HOUR  after  the  frightful   occa- 
sion when,  touching  crime  in  thought  as 
though   with   fingers,   she  had  wished  to 
disfigure  her  rival  with  vitriol  and  had  fancied 
that  she  had  done  so,  Germinie  re-entered  the  Rue 
de  Laval  bringing  up  a  bottle  of  brandy  with  her 
from  the  grocer's. 

For  two  weeks  she  had  been  mistress  of  the 
apartments,  free  to  indulge  in  her  drunkenness 
and  brutishness.  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil, 
who,  as  a  rule,  hardly  ever  stirred  from  home,  had 
most  exceptionally  gone  to  spend  six  weeks  in 
the  country  with  one  of  her  old  friends;  and  she 
had  been  unwilling  to  take  Germinie  with  her 
through  fear  of  allowing  the  other  servants  to  see 
her  bad  example,  and  to  become  jealous  of  a  maid 
accustomed  to  her  easy  service,  and  treated  on  a 
footing  other  than  their  own. 

On  entering  mademoiselle's  room,  Germinie 
gave  herself  only  time  to  throw  her  bonnet  and 
shawl  upon  the  ground  before  she  began  to  drink 
in  hurried  mouthfuls,  with  the  neck  of  the  brandy- 
bottle  between  her  teeth,  until  everything  in  the 
room  was  spinning  around  her,  and  the  whole  of 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  day  had  vanished  from  her  brain.  Then, 
staggering,  feeling  that  she  was  falling,  she  tried  to 
lie  down  on  her  mistress's  bed  in  order  to  sleep,  but 
her  intoxication  flung  her  aside  upon  the  night- 
table.  From  there  she  rolled  to  the  floor  and 
moved  no  more:  she  was  snoring. 

But  the  shock  had  been  so  violent  that  during 
the  night  she  had  a  miscarriage,  followed  by  one 
of  those  fluxes  wherein  life  ebbs  away.  She  tried 
to  raise  herself  to  go  and  call  on  the  landing,  she 
tried  to  get  upon  her  feet,  but  could  not.  She 
felt  herself  slipping  towards  death,  entering  it, 
descending  into  it  with  lingering  slowness.  At 
last,  putting  forth  a  final  effort,  she  dragged  her- 
self as  far  as  the  door  opening  on  the  staircase; 
but  when  there  she  found  it  impossible  to  lift  her- 
self as  high  as  the  lock,  impossible  to  cry  out.  And 
she  would  have  died  at  last,  had  not  Adele,  uneasy 
at  hearing  a  moaning  sound  as  she  passed  in  the 
morning,  sent  for  a  locksmith  to  open  the  door,  and 
a  midwife  to  deliver  the  dying  woman. 

When  mademoiselle  returned  at  the  end  of  a 
month,  she  found  Germinie  up,  but  so  weak  that 
she  was  obliged  to  sit  down  every  minute,  and  so 
pale  that  she  no  longer  seemed  to  have  any 
blood  in  her  body.  They  told  her  that  Germinie 
had  had  a  flux  of  which  she  had  nearly  died, 
and  mademoiselle  suspected  nothing. 


XXXV 

GERMINIE  greeted  mademoiselle's  return 
with  feeling  caresses,  moistened  with  tears. 
Her  tenderness  was  like  a  sick  child's;  it 
had  the  same  lingering  gentleness,  the  same  be- 
seeching air,  the  same  timorous  and  startled 
sadness  of  suffering.  She  sought  to  touch  her 
mistress  with  her  pale,  blue-veined  hands.  She 
approached  her  with  a  sort  of  trembling  and  rever- 
ent humility.  Most  frequently,  seated  opposite 
to  her  on  a  footstool,  and  looking  up  at  her  with 
the  eyes  of  a  dog,  she  would  get  up  at  intervals  to 
kiss  her  on  some  part  of  her  dress,  return  to  her 
seat,  and  then,  a  moment  later,  perform  the  same 
action  over  again. 

There  was  anguish  and  entreaty  in  these  caresses 
and  kisses  of  Germinie's.  The  death  that  she  had 
heard  approaching  her  like  a  person,  with  some- 
body's footsteps,  those  hours  of  exhaustion  when, 
in  bed  and  alone  with  herself,  she  had  reviewed 
her  life,  and  retraced  her  past,  the  remembrance 
and  the  shame  of  all  that  she  had  concealed  from 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil,  the  terror  of  a  judg- 
ment from  God  uprising  from  the  heart  of  her  old 
religious  ideas,  all  the  reproaches  and  all  the  fears 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

which  haunt  those  who  are  about  to  die,  had 
created  a  supreme  terror  in  her  conscience;  and 
remorse  —  remorse  which  she  had  never  been  able 
to  kill  within  her  —  was  now  living  and  crying 
out  in  the  weakened,  shaken  being,  which  was 
still  but  imperfectly  linked  back  to  life,  was  still 
scarcely  attached  once  more  to  a  belief  in  existence. 

Germinie  was  not  one  of  those  happy  natures 
who  do  evil  and  leave  the  memory  of  it  behind 
them,  reverting  to  it  no  more  in  regretful  thought. 
Unlike  Adele,  she  had  not  one  of  those  gross 
material  organisms  which  can  be  penetrated  only 
by  animal  impressions.  She  had  not  such  a  con- 
science as  will  escape  from  suffering  through  bru- 
tishness,  and  through  that  dense  stupidness  in 
which  a  woman  vegetates,  ingenuously  faulty. 
In  her  a  morbid  sensitiveness,  a  sort  of  cerebral 
erethism,  a  tendency  of  her  head  to  be  always 
working  and  disquieting  itself  in  bitterness,  anx- 
iety, and  self-discontent,  a  moral  sense  which  had 
erected  itself,  as  it  were,  within  her  after  every 
fall,  all  the  gifts  of  nicety,  choiceness,  and  mis- 
fortune, united  to  torture  her,  and  every  day  thrust 
back  further  and  more  cruelly  into  despair  the 
torment  of  what  would  scarcely  have  caused  such 
lengthened  sorrows  to  many  of  her  kind. 

Germinie  yielded  to  the  rush  of  passion,  but 
she  had  no  sooner  done  so  than  she  despised  her- 
self for  it.  Even  during  her  pleasure  she  could 
not  forget  herself  entirely  and  lose  herself.  Amid 

£185:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

her  self-distraction  there  rose  constantly  before 
her  the  image  of  mademoiselle  with  her  austere, 
maternal  face.  Germinie  did  not  feel  shameless- 
ness  come  to  her  in  proportion  as  she  sank  beneath 
the  level  of  her  virtue.  The  degradations  into 
which  she  plunged  strengthened  her  in  no  degree 
against  disgust  and  horror  of  herself.  Habit  did 
not  bring  her  callousness.  Her  polluted  con- 
science rejected  its  pollutions,  struggled  amidst 
its  shame,  was  torn  asunder  in  its  repentance, 
and  did  not  for  one  moment  permit  to  her  the 
full  enjoyment  of  vice,  the  entire  deadness  of 
degradation. 

Thus,  when  mademoiselle,  forgetting  the  ser- 
vant that  she  was,  bent  over  her  with  one  of  those 
abrupt  familiarities  of  voice  and  gesture  which 
brought  her  close  to  her  heart,  Germinie,  in  con- 
fusion, and  a  sudden  prey  to  blushing  timidity, 
would  become  mute  and  idiot-like  beneath  the 
horrible  pain  of  seeing  all  her  unworthiness.  She 
would  fly,  she  would  make  an  excuse  for  tearing 
herself  away  from  this  affection,  which  had  been 
so  odiously  deceived,  and  which  as  it  touched  her, 
stirred  and  thrilled  all  her  remorse. 


XXXVI 

A  MIRACULOUS  feature  in  this  life  of  dis- 
order and  anguish,  this  shameful  and  broken 
life,  was  that  it  did  not  break  out.    Ger- 
minie  suffered  none  of  it  to  start  forth,  she  suffered 
none  of  it  to  rise  to  her  lips,  she  suffered  none  of  it 
to  be  seen  in  her  countenance,  none  of  it  to  appear 
in    her   demeanor,    and   the   accursed    depths  of 
her   existence   ever    remained    hidden    from    her 
mistress. 

It  had,  indeed,  sometimes  befallen  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil  to  be  vaguely  sensible  of  some 
secret  on  the  part  of  her  maid,  of  something  that 
she  was  hiding  from  her,  of  some  obscure  spot  in 
her  life;  she  had  had  moments  of  doubt  and  mis- 
trust, and  instinctive  anxiety,  beginnings  of  con- 
fused perception,  the  scent  of  a  trail  that  was  con- 
stantly sinking  and  losing  itself  in  gloom.  At 
times  she  had  thought  that  she  had  come  close  in 
this  girl  to  things  secret  and  cold,  to  mystery,  to 
shadow.  At  other  times,  again,  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  her  maid's  eyes  did  not  express  the  utterance 
of  her  lips.  Without  intending  it,  she  had  retained 
in  her  memory  a  phrase  which  Germinie  used  often 
to  repeat:  "A  sin  hidden  is  a  sin  half  forgiven." 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

But  what  especially  engaged  her  thoughts  was 
her  astonishment  at  seeing  that,  in  spite  of  an 
increase  in  her  wages,  in  spite  of  the  little  daily 
presents  which  she  gave  her,  Germinie  bought 
nothing  new  for  her  toilet,  had  no  new  dresses,  no 
new  linen.  Where  did  her  money  go?  She  had 
almost  acknowledged  to  her  the  withdrawal  of 
her  eighteen  hundred  francs  from  the  savings 
bank.  Mademoiselle  thought  over  this,  and  then 
said  to  herself  that  here  was  the  whole  of  her  maid's 
mystery;  it  was  money  embarrassments,  obliga- 
tions which,  doubtless,  she  had  formerly  con- 
tracted on  account  of  her  relations,  and  perhaps 
fresh  sendings  "to  her  rascally  brother-in-law." 
She  had  so  good  a  heart  and  so  little  method! 
She  had  so  little  knowledge  of  the  value  of  a  hun- 
dred-sou piece!  That  was  all:  mademoiselle  was 
sure  of  it;  and  as  she  knew  her  maid's  obstinate 
nature,  and  had  no  hopes  of  changing  her,  she 
said  nothing  to  her. 

When  this  explanation  did  not  completely  sat- 
isfy mademoiselle,  she  attributed  whatever  she 
found  strange  and  mysterious  in  her  maid  to  a 
somewhat  secret-loving  feminine  nature,  which  pre- 
served the  disposition  and  distrustfulness  of  the 
peasant-woman,  jealous  of  her  own  little  concerns, 
and  delighting  to  bury  a  fragment  of  her  life  deep 
within  her,  just  as,  in  villages,  people  heap  up 
sous  in  a  woollen  stocking.  Or  else  she  persuaded 
herself  that  it  was  sickness,  her  continual  state 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

of  suffering,  that  gave  her  these  whims  and  this 
secretiveness.  And  her  thoughts,  in  their  in- 
vestigation and  their  curiosity,  stopped  here  with 
the  indolence  and  also  with  something  of  the  ego- 
ism of  the  thoughts  of  old  persons,  who,  with  an 
instinctive  dread  of  the  ends  of  things  and  of  the 
hearts  of  people,  are  unwilling  to  be  too  anxious, 
or  to  know  too  much.  Who  could  tell?  Perhaps 
all  this  mysteriousness  was  only  some  trifle  un- 
deserving of  her  anxiety  or  interest,  some  feminine 
squabble  or  quarrel.  She  was  reassured  and  lulled 
by  this  thought,  and  ceased  her  inquiry. 

And  how  could  mademoiselle  have  guessed 
Germinie's  degradations  and  the  horror  of  her 
secret!  In  her  most  poignant  griefs,  in  her  wildest 
intoxications,  the  unhappy  woman  maintained  the 
incredible  strength  requisite  for  restraining  and 
burying  all.  From  her  passionate,  extravagant  na- 
ture, so  ready  to  pour  itself  out  in  expansiveness, 
there  never  escaped  a  phrase,  a  word  that  might 
have  been  a  lightning-flash,  a  gleam.  Vexations, 
scornings,  sorrows,  sacrifices  —  the  death  of  her 
child,  the  treachery  of  her  lover,  the  death  struggle 
of  her  love,  all  remained  silent,  stifled  within  her 
as  though  she  were  straining  both  hands  upon  her 
heart.  The  occasional  swoonings  which  came  upon 
her,  and  in  which  she  seemed  to  be  struggling  with 
the  griefs  that  were  strangling  her,  the  feverish, 
frenzied  caresses  given  to  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil,  the  sudden  outpouring  which  resembled 

£189  3 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

crises  seeking  to  give  birth  to  something,  ended 
always  without  speech  and  took  refuge  in  tears. 

Even  sickness  with  its  weakness  and  nerveless- 
ness  drew  nothing  from  her.  It  could  not  impair 
the  heroic  will  to  be  silent  to  the  end.  Her  nerve- 
crises  wrung  from  her  cries  and  nothing  more. 
When  a  young  girl  she  used  to  dream  aloud;  she 
forced  her  dreams  to  speak  no  more;  she  closed 
the  lips  of  her  sleep.  As  mademoiselle  might  have 
perceived  from  her  breath  that  she  drank,  she 
ate  garlic  and  scallions,  and  in  the  stench  of  them 
concealed  the  odor  of  her  drunkenness.  Even  her 
intoxications,  her  drunken  lethargies,  she  trained 
to  rouse  at  her  mistress's  step,  and  to  remain  awake 
in  her  presence. 

She  thus  led  as  it  were  two  lives.  She  was  like 
two  women,  and  by  her  energy,  adroitness,  and 
feminine  diplomacy,  with  the  self-possession  that 
was  always  present  with  her  even  in  the  confusion 
of  drink,  she  succeeded  in  separating  these  two 
lives,  in  living  them  both  without  mingling  them, 
in  refraining  from  confusing  the  two  women  who 
were  in  her,  in  remaining  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil's  eyes  the  honest  and  steady  girl  that 
she  had  been,  in  emerging  from  a  debauch  with- 
out taking  the  flavor  of  it  with  her,  in  displaying, 
when  she  had  just  left  her  own  lover,  a  sort  of 
shamefacedness  like  that  of  an  old  maid  disgusted 
by  the  scandalous  behavior  of  the  other  servant- 
women.  No  utterance  or  manner  of  dress  was  ever 

C  IPO] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

such  as  might  rouse  a  suspicion  of  her  clandestine 
life;  nothing  about  her  savored  of  her  nights. 
When  she  set  her  foot  upon  the  matting  in  Made- 
moiselle de  VarandeuiPs  apartment,  when  she  ap- 
proached her  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
her,  she  would  assume  the  language,  the  atti- 
tude, even  certain  folds  of  the  dress  which  keep 
from  a  woman  the  very  thought  of  a  man's  ap- 
proaches. 

She  spoke  freely  of  everything,  as  though  she 
had  to  blush  at  nothing.  She  was  bitter  against 
the  faults  and  shame  of  others,  as  is  a  person  who 
is  without  reproach.  She  jested  about  love  with 
her  mistress  in  a  gay,  unembarrassed,  offhand 
manner;  she  had  the  appearance  of  talking  about 
an  old  acquaintance  that  she  had  lost  sight  of. 
And  to  all  those  who  saw  her  only  as  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil  saw  her,  and  in  her  mistress's  house, 
there  was  about  her  thirty-five  years  a  certain 
atmosphere  of  peculiar  chastity,  a  perfume  of 
severe  and  not  to  be  suspected  honesty,  which 
is  characteristic  of  old  servants  and  ugly 
women. 

Nevertheless,  all  this  falsity  of  appearance  was 
not  hypocrisy  with  Germinie.  It  was  not  the  out- 
come of  perverse  duplicity,  of  depraved  calcula- 
tion: it  was  her  affection  for  mademoiselle  that 
made  her  what  she  was  in  her  mistress's  house. 
She  wanted  at  all  costs  to  save  her  the  sorrow  of 
seeing  her  and  of  piercing  her  inmost  nature.  She 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

deceived  her  solely  to  keep  her  affection,  and  with 
a  sort  of  respect;  into  the  horrible  comedy  that 
she  was  acting  there  crept  a  pious,  religious  feeling, 
like  the  feeling  of  a  young  girl  who  lies  to  her 
mother's  eyes  that  she  may  not  grieve  her  heart. 


XXXVII 

LIE!  she  had  lost  the  power  of  doing  anything 
else.    She  felt  it  to  be  a  kind  of  impossibility 
to  draw  back  from  her  position ;  she  did  not 
so  much  as  entertain  the  idea  of  an  effort  to  get 
out  of  it,  so  craven,  so  overwhelmed,  so  vanquished 
was  she,  so  completely  did  she  still  feel  herself 
bound  to  this  man  by  all  sorts  of  base  chains  and 
degrading  ties,  by  the  very  contempt  which  he 
no  longer  concealed  from  her! 

Sometimes  she  was  frightened  as  she  reflected 
upon  herself.  Village  ideas,  village  fears  recurred 
to  her,  and  her  youthful  superstitions  whispered 
to  her  that  this  man  had  thrown  a  spell  over  her, 
that  he  had  made  her  eat  "unleavened  bread." 
Without  this  would  she  have  been  as  she  was? 
Would  she  have  had  that  emotion  throughout  her 
being  at  the  mere  sight  of  him,  that  almost  animal 
sensation  of  a  master's  approach?  Would  she 
have  felt  her  whole  person,  her  mouth,  her  arms, 
the  love  and  caressing  of  her  gestures  going  out 
involuntarily  to  him?  Would  she  have  belonged 
to  him  thus  completely?  Long  and  bitterly  did 
she  recall  all  that  ought  to  have  cured  her,  to  have 
saved  her  —  the  disdain  of  the  man,  his  insults, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  depravity  of  the  pleasures  which  he  had  re- 
quired from  her  —  and  she  was  compelled  to 
acknowledge  to  herself  that  she  had  found  no 
sacrifice  too  dear  for  him,  and  that  for  him  she 
had  swallowed  the  uttermost  dregs  of  disgust. 
She  strove  to  imagine  a  degree  of  degradation  to 
which  her  love  would  refuse  to  descend,  and  she 
could  find  none.  He  might  do  what  he  would  with 
her,  insult  her,  beat  her,  and  she  would  still  be  his, 
and  beneath  his  heel!  She  could  not  see  herself 
as  no  longer  belonging  to  him.  She  could  not  see 
herself  without  him.  To  have  this  man  to  love 
was  a  necessity  with  her;  she  warmed  herself  in 
him  and  lived  in  him,  and  breathed  in  him.  Noth- 
ing similar  seemed  to  exist  round  about  her  among 
the  women  of  her  rank.  None  of  the  companions 
to  whom  she  had  access  experienced  in  a  liaison  the 
violence,  the  bitterness,  the  torture,  the  happiness 
in  suffering  which  she  found  in  her  own.  None 
experienced  that  which  was  killing  her,  and  which 
she  could  not  forego. 

To  herself,  she  appeared  extraordinary  and  of 
an  exceptional  disposition,  of  the  temperament  of 
animals  that  are  rendered  faithful  by  evil  treat- 
ment. There  were  days  on  which  she  no  longer 
knew  herself,  and  on  which  she  asked  herself 
whether  she  was  still  the  same  woman.  In  review- 
ing all  the  baseness  to  which  Jupillon  had  bent  her, 
she  could  not  believe  that  it  was  she  who  had 
undergone  it  all.  She,  who  knew  herself  to  be 

n  1943 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

violent,  fiery,  full  of  bad  passions,  revolts  and 
storms,  she  had  resigned  herself  to  all  this  sub- 
missiveness  and  docility!  She  had  repressed  her 
anger,  had  driven  back  the  thoughts  of  blood 
which  had  so  often  risen  to  her  brain!  She  had 
been  always  obedient,  always  patient,  always  with 
bowed  head!  She  had  made  her  temper,  her  in- 
stincts, her  pride,  her  vanity,  and  more  than  all, 
her  jealousy,  the  ragings  of  her  heart,  crawl  at 
this  man's  feet!  To  keep  him,  she  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  share  him,  to  allow  him  mistresses,  to  re- 
ceive him  from  the  hands  of  others,  to  search  his 
cheek  for  a  place  on  which  his  cousin  had  not 
kissed  him! 

And  now,  after  exhausting  the  many  conces- 
sions with  which  she  had  wearied  him,  she  re- 
tained him  by  a  more  disgusting  sacrifice,  she 
drew  him  by  presents,  she  opened  her  purse  to 
bring  him  to  the  place  of  meeting,  she  purchased 
his  amiability  by  satisfying  his  whims  and  caprices, 
she  paid  this  man  who  trafficked  in  his  kisses,  and 
asked  gratuities  from  love!  And  she  lived  on 
from  one  day  to  the  next  in  terror  of  what  the 
wretch  might  require  of  her  on  the  morrow. 


XXXVIII 

HE  wants  twenty  francs." 
Germinie  repeated  this  several  times  to 
herself,  but  her  thought  did  not  pass  be- 
yond the  words  that  she  uttered.  Her  walk,  and 
the  ascent  of  the  five  stories  had  dazed  her.  She 
dropped  into  a  seat  on  the  greasy  settle  in  her 
kitchen,  bent  her  head,  and  laid  her  arms  upon 
the  table.  Her  head  was  singing.  Her  thoughts 
would  go  from  her,  and  then  return  as  in  a  crowd, 
and  stifle  one  another  within  her,  while  of  them 
all  there  remained  to  her  but  one,  ever  keener 
and  more  fixed: 

"He  wants  twenty  francs!  —  twenty  francs!  — 
twenty  francs !  - 

And  she  looked  around  her  as  though  she  wrould 
find  them  there  in  the  fireplace,  in  the  dust-basket, 
or  beneath  the  stove.  Then  she  thought  of  the 
people  who  were  in  her  debt,  of  a  German  maid, 
who  had  promised  to  repay  her  a  year  ago.  She 
got  up  and  fastened  on  her  cap.  She  no  longer 
said: 

"He  wants  twenty  francs;"  she  said:  "I  shall 
get  them." 

She  went  down  to  Adele: 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"You  haven't  twenty  francs  for  a  bill  that's 
been  brought?  Mademoiselle  is  out." 

"No  such  luck,"  said  Adele:  "I  gave  my  last 
twenty  francs  to  madame  yesterday  evening  to  go 
out  to  supper.  The  jade  hasn't  come  in  again 
yet.  Will  you  have  thirty  sous?" 

She  hastened  to  the  grocer's.  It  was  Sunday, 
and  three  o'clock;  the  grocer  had  just  closed  his 
shop. 

There  were  some  people  at  the  fruit- woman's; 
she  asked  for  four  sous'  worth  of  herbs. 

"I  have  no  money,"  she  said.  She  hoped  that 
the  fruit-woman  would  say  to  her:  "Do  you  want 
some?"  The  fruit-woman  said:  "What  a  piece  of 
affectation!  as  though  people  were  afraid  about 
that!"  There  were  other  servants  there,  so  she 
went  out  without  speaking. 

"There's  nothing  for  us?"  she  said  to  the  con- 
cierge. "Ah!  by  the  way,  you  haven't  got  twenty 
francs,  my  Pipelet,  have  you?  It  would  save  my 
going  up  again." 

"Forty  if  you  like." 

She  drew  her  breath.  The  concierge  went  up 
to  a  cupboard  in  the  back  part  of  his  lodge. 

"Ah!  by  jove!  my  wife  has  taken  the  key.  But 
how  pale  you  are!" 

"It's  nothing,"  and  she  escaped  into  the  court- 
yard towards  the  back  staircase. 

As  she  went  up  again  this  is  what  she  was  think- 
ing: 

C  197  H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

'There  are  people  who  find  twenty-franc  pieces. 
It's  to-day  that  he  wants  them,  so  he  told  me. 
Mademoiselle  gave  me  my  money  not  five  days 
ago,  and  I  can't  ask  her.  For  that  matter  what 
are  twenty  francs  more  or  less  to  her?  The  grocer 
would  have  lent  them  to  me  without  doubt. 
There's  that  other  that  I  used  to  deal  with  in  the 
Rue  Taitbout;  he  didn't  close  until  the  evening 
on  Sundays  —  " 

She  was  on  her  own  story  and  in  front  of  the 
door.  She  leaned  over  the  balustrade  of  the  front 
staircase,  and  looked  to  see  whether  any  one  was 
coming  up,  entered,  went  straight  to  made- 
moiselle's room,  opened  the  window,  and  took  a 
deep  breath,  resting  both  elbows  on  the  cross- 
bar. Some  sparrows  hastened  thither  from  the 
chimneys  round  about,  thinking  that  she  was  going 
to  throw  them  some  bread.  She  shut  the  window 
and  looked  into  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  chest 
of  drawers,  first  at  a  marble  vein,  then  at  a  little 
money-box  of  West  Indian  wood,  then  at  the  key, 
a  small  steel  key,  which  had  been  forgotten  in  the 
lock.  Suddenly,  her  ears  tingled;  she  thought 
that  some  one  was  ringing;  she  went  to  open  the 
door,  but  there  was  no  one  there.  She  came  back 
with  the  feeling  that  she  was  alone,  went  to  the 
kitchen  for  a  cloth,  and  turning  her  back  to  the 
chest  of  drawers,  began  to  rub  the  mahogany  of  an 
armchair;  but  she  could  still  see  the  box,  she  could 
see  it  open,  she  could  see  the  righthand  corner 

£198:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

in  which  mademoiselle  put  her  gold,  the  little 
papers  in  which  she  wrapped  up  the  francs  hun- 
dred by  hundred;  her  twenty  francs  were  there! 
She  shut  her  eyes  as  though  they  were  dazzled. 
She  was  sensible  of  a  vertigo  in  her  conscience; 
but  immediately  it  rose  in  its  entirety  against 
itself,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  indignant 
heart  were  mounting  up  within  her  breast. 

In  an  instant  the  honor  of  her  whole  life  had 
reared  itself  between  her  hand  and  the  key.  Her 
past  of  probity,  disinterestedness,  devotion,  twenty 
years  of  resistance  to  the  evil  counsels  of  that  cor- 
rupt district,  twenty  years  of  contempt  for  theft, 
twenty  years  in  which  her  pocket  had  not  con- 
tained a  farthing  belonging  to  her  employers, 
twenty  years  of  indifference  to  lucre,  twenty  years 
in  which  temptation  had  not  approached  her,  her 
lengthened  and  natural  honesty,  the  confidence 
of  mademoiselle  —  all  these  came  back  to  her  at 
a  stroke.  The  years  of  her  youth  embraced  her 
and  took  her  back.  From  her  family  even,  from 
the  recollection  of  her  parents,  from  the  pure 
memory  of  her  wretched  name,  from  the  dead  from 
whom  she  sprang,  there  arose  as  it  were  a  murmur- 
ing of  guardian  shadows  around  her.  For  a  second 
she  was  saved. 

Then  by  insensible  degrees  evil  thoughts  crept 
one  by  one  into  her  head.  She  sought  for  matters 
of  bitterness,  for  reasons  for  ingratitude  towards 
her  mistress.  She  compared  her  own  wages  with 

C  1 99  3 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  amount  of  which  the  other  maids  of  the  house 
used  in  vanity  to  boast.  She  considered  that 
mademoiselle  was  very  well  off,  that  she  ought  to 
have  given  a  greater  increase  since  she  had  been 
with  her.  And  then,  she  suddenly  asked  herself, 
why  does  she  leave  the  key  in  the  box?  And  then 
she  began  to  think  that  the  money  which  was  there 
was  not  money  for  living  on,  but  savings  of  made- 
moiselle's to  buy  a  velvet  dress  for  a  god-daughter; 
money  which  was  lying  idle  —  she  said  to  herself 
again.  She  hurried  her  reasons  as  though  to  pre- 
vent herself  from  discussing  her  excuses.  "And 
then,  it  is  only  for  once  —  she  would  lend  them  to 
me  if  I  asked  her  —  and  I  will  pay  them  back  — 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  turned  the  key.  She 
paused;  it  seemed  as  though  the  great  silence 
around  her  were  looking  at  her  and  listening  to 
her.  She  raised  her  eyes,  and  the  glass  threw  her 
back  her  features.  At  the  sight  of  this  countenance 
of  her  own,  she  was  afraid;  she  recoiled  in  terror 
and  shame  as  though  before  the  face  of  her  crime; 
it  was  a  thief's  head  that  she  had  upon  her  shoulders. 

She  had  fled  into  the  corridor.  Suddenly  she 
turned  upon  her  heels,  went  straight  to  the  box, 
gave  the  key  a  turn,  thrust  in  her  hand,  searched 
through  hair-lockets  and  keepsake  trinkets,  blindly 
took  a  coin  from  a  little  pile  of  five  louis  pieces, 
shut  the  box,  and  escaped  into  the  kitchen.  She 
held  the  little  coin  in  her  hand  and  did  not  dare  to 
look  at  it. 

C2003 


XXXIX 

IT  was  then  that  Germinie's  debasement  and 
degradation  began  to  appear  in  her  whole 
person,  to  make  her  dull  and  dirty.  A  sort 
of  sleep  overtook  her  ideas.  She  was  no  longer 
quick  and  prompt  to  think;  what  she  had  read 
and  learnt  seemed  to  escape  her.  Her  memory, 
which  formerly  had  retained  everything,  became 
confused  and  forgetful.  The  wit  of  the  Parisian 
servant  gradually  forsook  her  conversation,  her 
replies,  her  laughter.  Her  physiognomy,  which 
lately  had  been  so  lively,  had  lost  all  its  lightning- 
glances.  Her  whole  person  seemed  to  betoken  the 
return  of  the  stupid  peasant  that  she  had  been 
when  she  arrived  from  the  country  and  went  to  a 
stationer's  to  buy  ginger-bread.  She  seemed  to 
have  lost  the  power  of  comprehension.  Made- 
moiselle saw  her  look  with  a  face  of  an  idiot,  when 
she  spoke  to  her.  She  was  obliged  to  explain  to  her, 
and  repeat  to  her  twice  or  thrice,  what,  hitherto, 
Germinie  had  caught  from  a  hint.  Seeing  her  in 
this  condition,  slow  and  drowsy,  she  asked  her- 
self whether  some  one  had  not  changed  her 
maid. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Really  you  are  becoming  a  stupid  fool!"  she 
said  to  her  sometimes  in  her  impatience. 

She  remembered  the  time  when  Germinie  had 
been  so  useful  to  her  in  recalling  a  date,  in  address- 
ing a  card,  in  telling  the  day  when  the  wood  had 
come  in  or  the  cask  of  wine  had  been  begun,  all 
these  being  things  which  escaped  her  own  old 
brain.  Germinie  could  now  remember  nothing. 
When  she  was  reckoning  up  with  mademoiselle  in 
the  evening  she  could  not  recall  what  she  had 
bought  in  the  morning.  "Wait!"  she  would  say, 
and  after  a  vague  gesture  nothing  recurred  to  her. 
To  spare  her  eyes,  mademoiselle  had  grown  ac- 
customed to  have  the  newspaper  read  to  her  by 
her  maid;  but  Germinie  came  to  hesitate  in  such 
a  fashion,  and  to  read  with  so  little  intelligence, 
that  mademoiselle  was  obliged  to  decline  the 
service. 

While  her  intellect  thus  grew  constantly  weaker, 
her  body  also  was  abandoned  and  neglected.  She 
renounced  the  toilet,  and  even  cleanliness.  In 
her  heedlessness  she  preserved  nothing  of  a 
woman's  care;  she  no  longer  dressed  herself.  She 
wore  dresses  spotted  with  grease  and  rent  under 
the  arms,  aprons  in  tatters,  stockings  in  holes, 
with  misshapen  old  shoes.  She  allowed  the  kitchen 
smoke,  coal,  blacking,  to  soil  her,  to  be  wiped  up 
by  her  as  by  a  dishcloth.  Formerly  she  had  in- 
dulged in  the  coquetry  and  luxury  of  poor  women 
—  the  love  of  linen.  No  one  in  the  house  wore 

1:202] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

fresher  caps.  Her  little  collars,  which  were  quite 
simple  and  plain,  had  always  that  whiteness  which 
lights  up  the  skin  so  prettily  and  makes  the  whole 
person  tidy.  Now  she  wore  caps  that  were  worn 
and  crumpled,  and  that  looked  as  though  she  had 
slept  in  them.  She  did  without  cuffs,  her  collar 
allowed  a  strip  of  dirt  to  be  seen  against  the  skin 
of  her  neck,  and  one  felt  she  was  even  filthier  below 
than  above.  A  rank  and  stagnant  odor  of  wretch- 
edness came  from  her.  Sometimes  it  was  so 
strong  that  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  could 
not  help  saying  to  her: 

"Go  and  change,  my  girl;  you  smell  of  poverty." 
In  the  street  she  no  longer  looked  as  though  she 
belonged  to  any  decent  person.  She  no  longer 
seemed  to  be  a  respectable  person's  servant.  She 
was  losing  the  aspect  of  a  maid  who,  careful  and 
respectful  of  herself  in  her  very  dress,  bears  about 
her  the  reflection  of  her  house,  and  the  pride  of 
her  employers.  From  day  to  day  she  was  be- 
coming that  abject,  bare-breasted  creature  whose 
dress  sweeps  the  kennel  —  a  sloven. 

Neglecting  herself,  she  neglected  everything 
around  her.  She  no  longer  tidied,  or  cleaned,  or 
washed.  She  allowed  disorder  and  dirt  to  find 
their  way  into  the  apartments,  to  invade  made- 
moiselle's home,  that  little  home  whose  cleanli- 
ness had  formerly  made  mademoiselle  so  content 
and  proud.  The  dust  collected,  spiders  spun  their 
webs  behind  the  picture-frames,  the  mirrors  grew 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

dull,  the  marble  chimney-pieces  and  mahogany 
furniture  became  tarnished;  moths  flew  from  the 
no  longer  shaken  rugs,  worms  established  them- 
selves in  places  unswept  by  brush  or  broom; 
forgetfulness  everywhere  scattered  dust  upon  the 
slumbering  and  neglected  things  which  formerly 
were  awaked  and  revived  by  the  energy  of  every 
morning. 

Ten  times  over  had  mademoiselle  tried  to  pique 
Germinie's  pride  in  the  matter;  but  then,  the 
whole  day  long,  there  was  a  cleaning  so  furious 
and  accompanied  by  such  fits  of  temper,  that 
mademoiselle  resolved  never  to  do  so  again.  One 
day,  nevertheless,  she  was  bold  enough  to  write 
Germinie's  name  with  her  finger  in  the  dust  on  the 
looking-glass;  it  was  a  week  before  Germinie  for- 
gave her.  Mademoiselle  at  last  resigned  herself 
to  it.  She  did  no  more  than  say  very  gently, 
when  she  saw  her  maid  in  a  momentary  good 
humor: 

"Confess,  my  girl,  that  the  dust  has  a  good  time 
with  us!" 

To  the  astonishment  and  remarks  of  the  friends 
who  still  came  to  see  her  and  whom  Germinie  was 
obliged  to  admit,  mademoiselle  would  reply  in  a 
tone  of  pity  and  compassion: 

"Yes,  it  is  dirty,  I  know.  But  what  of  it? 
Germinie  is  ill,  and  I  would  rather  that  she  did 
not  kill  herself." 

Sometimes  when  Germinie  had  gone  out  she 
[2043 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ventured  with  gouty  hands  to  give  a  wipe  with  a 
napkin  to  the  chest  of  drawers,  a  stroke  with  a 
feather  brush  to  a  picture-frame.  She  used  to 
make  haste,  dreading  lest  she  should  be  scolded, 
lest  she  should  have  a  scene,  if  her  maid  came  in 
and  saw  her. 

Germinie  did  scarcely  any  more  work;  she 
hardly  served  the  meals.  She  had  reduced  her 
mistress's  lunch  and  dinner  to  the  simplest  dishes, 
the  quickest  and  easiest  to  cook.  She  made  her 
bed  without  raising  the  mattresses  in  the  English 
fashion.  The  servant  that  she  had  once  been 
was  recovered  and  revived  within  her  only  on  the 
days  on  which  mademoiselle  gave  a  little  dinner, 
when  the  number  of  covers  was  always  sufficiently 
large  owing  to  the  band  of  children  invited.  On 
such  days  Germinie  would  emerge  as  though  by 
magic  from  her  laziness  and  apathy,  and  drawing 
strength  from  a  sort  of  fever,  would  recover  all 
her  old  activity  in  front  of  her  stoves  and 
lengthened  table.  And  mademoiselle  would  be 
astounded  to  see  her,  all-sufficing,  alone  and  un- 
willing to  receive  assistance,  cooking  a  dinner 
for  ten  people  in  a  few  hours,  serving  it,  and  clear- 
ing it  away  with  the  hands  and  all  the  quick 
adroitness  of  her  youth. 


XL 


NO  —  this  time,  no,"  said  Germinie,  getting 
up  from  the  foot  of  Jupillon's  bed,  on  which 
she  had  been  seated.     "There  is  no  means. 
So  you  don't  know  that  I  haven't  got  another  sou, 
nothing  that  is  called  a  sou.     You  haven't  seen 
the  stockings  I  wear!" 

And  raising  her  petticoat,  she  showed  him  stock- 
ings that  were  all  in  holes  and  fastened  with  sel- 
vages. 

"I  haven't  what  will  get  me  a  change  of  any- 
thing. Money?  why,  on  mademoiselle's  birthday, 
I  hadn't  enough  just  to  give  her  some  flowers.  I 
bought  her  a  bunch  of  violets  for  a  sou,  so !  Money, 
indeed!  Do  you  know  how  I  got  your  last  twenty 
francs?  By  taking  them  out  of  mademoiselle's 
cash-box.  I  have  replaced  them,  but  that's  all 
over.  I'll  have  no  more  of  that  kind  of  thing.  It's 
all  very  well  for  once.  Where  would  you  have  me 
find  them  now,  just  tell  me  that?  People  can't 
pawn  their  skins,  and  there's  no  other  way  that 
I  know  of.  But  another  thing  like  that  I'll  never 
do  in  my  life  again!  Anything  you  like,  but  not 
that,  not  stealing!  I'll  do  it  no  more.  Oh,  I  know 
well  enough  what  will  happen  to  me  with  you  — 
but  so  much  the  worse!" 

1*061 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Well,  have  you  done  exciting  yourself?"  said 
Jupillon.  "If  you  had  told  me  that  about  the 
twenty  francs,  do  you  imagine  that  I'd  have 
wanted  them?  I  didn't  think  you  were  such  a 
beggar  as  that.  I  saw  you  always  getting  along. 
I  fancied  it  wouldn't  put  you  out  to  lend  me  a 
twenty- franc  piece  that  I'd  have  paid  you  back 
in  a  week  or  two  with  the  rest.  But  you  don't 
say  anything.  Well,  that's  all  about  it;  I'll  ask 
you  no  more.  It's  no  reason  why  we  should  get 
angry,  is  it?" 

And  casting  an  indefinable  glance  upon  Ger- 
minie: 

"Till  Thursday,  eh?" 

'Till  Thursday!"  said  Germinie,  desperately. 

She  longed  to  throw  herself  into  Jupillon's  arms, 
to  ask  his  forgiveness  for  her  wretchedness,  to  say 
to  him: 

"You  see,  I  cannot!" 

"Till  Thursday!"  she  repeated,  and  went  away. 

When  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  Jupillon's 
ground-floor  lodgings  on  Thursday,  she  thought 
that  she  could  hear  the  footsteps  of  a  man  re- 
treating into  the  back  part.  The  door  opened; 
before  her  stood  the  cousin  in  a  hair-net,  an 
ample  red  jacket,  slippers,  and  the  toilet  and  face 
of  a  woman  who  is  at  home  in  a  man's  home.  Her 
things  were  lying  about  here  and  there.  Germinie 
could  see  them  on  the  furniture  for  which  she  had 
paid. 

£207:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"What  does  madame  want?"  asked  the  cousin, 
impudently. 

"Monsieur  Jupillon." 

"He  is  out." 

"  I  will  wait  for  him,"  said  Germinie,  as  she  tried 
to  enter  the  other  room. 

"At  the  concierge's,  then."  And  the  cousin 
barred  her  passage. 

"When  will  he  be  back?" 

"When  hens  have  teeth,"  said  the  young  girl, 
gravely;  and  she  shut  the  door  in  her  face. 

"Well,  it's  just  what  I  expected  from  him," 
said  Germinie,  as  she  walked  along  the  street.  The 
paving-stones  seemed  to  be  giving  way  beneath 
her  nerveless  legs. 


XLI 

COMING  in  that  evening  from  a  baptismal 
dinner  party  which  she  had  been  unable  to 
decline,  mademoiselle  heard  talking  in  her 
room.    She  thought  that  there  was  some  one  with 
Germinie,  and  pushed  open  the  door  in  astonish- 
ment.    By  the  light  of  a  black  smoky  candle  she 
could  at  first  see  nobody;  then,  looking  carefully, 
she  perceived  her  maid  lying  curled  up  on  the  foot 
of  her  bed. 

Germinie  was  asleep  and  was  speaking.  She 
spoke  in  a  strange  tone,  and  one  which  inspired 
emotion  and  almost  fear.  The  vague  solemnity 
of  supernatural  things,  a  breath  from  beyond  the 
limits  of  life  was  in  the  room  with  this  involuntary, 
escaping,  throbbing,  suspended  speech  of  sleep 
which  was  like  a  disembodied  soul  straying  upon 
dead  lips.  It  was  a  slow,  deep,  distant  voice,  with 
long  breathing  pauses  and  words  exhaled  like  sighs, 
crossed  by  vibrating  and  poignant  tones  which 
penetrated  the  heart,  a  voice  full  of  the  mystery 
and  trembling  of  the  night  in  which  the  sleeper 
seemed  to  be  groping  after  memories,  and  to  be 
passing  her  hand  over  faces.  These  words  were 
audible: 

C  209  ] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Oh!  she  loved  me  well.  And  he,  if  he  were  not 
dead  —  we'd  be  happy  now,  wouldn't  we?  No, 
no!  But  it's  done  —  so  much  the  worse  —  I 
won't  tell  - 

And  then  came  a  nervous  shrinking  as  though 
Germinie  wished  to  thrust  back  her  secret,  and 
bring  it  back  from  the  edge  of  her  lips. 

Mademoiselle  had  leaned  with  a  sort  of  terror 
over  this  abandoned,  self-alienated  body,  to  which 
the  past  was  returning  like  a  ghost  to  a  forsaken 
house.  She  listened  to  these  confessions  ready  to 
spring  forth  and  mechanically  arrested,  to  this 
unknowing  thought  which  was  speaking  wholly 
of  itself,  to  this  voice  which  could  not  hear  itself. 
A  feeling  of  horror  came  upon  her;  she  felt  as  if 
she  were  beside  a  corpse  possessed  by  a  dream. 

After  an  interval  of  silence,  of  a  sort  of  pulling 
to  and  fro  amid  what  she  appeared  to  be  seeing 
again,  Germinie  seemed  to  allow  the  present  period 
of  her  life  to  come  to  her.  What  escaped  her, 
what  she  poured  forth  in  detached  and  inconse- 
quent words,  consisted,  so  far  as  mademoiselle 
could  understand,  in  reproaches  addressed  to 
some  one.  And  as  she  went  on  speaking  her 
language  became  as  unrecognizable  as  her  words, 
as  her  voice  transposed  into  the  notes  of  the  dream. 
It  soared  above  the  woman,  above  her  daily  toil 
and  expressions.  It  was  like  a  people's  language 
purified  and  transfigured  in  passion.  Germinie 
was  accenting  her  words  with  their  orthography; 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

she  was  uttering  them  with  their  eloquence.  The 
phrases  came  forth  from  her  mouth  with  their 
rhythm,  their  anguish,  and  their  tears,  as  from 
the  mouth  of  an  admirable  actress.  There  were 
impulses  of  tenderness  broken  by  cries;  then  came 
revolts,  outbursts,  and  marvellous,  strident,  merci- 
less irony  ever  stifled  in  a  fit  of  nervous  laughter 
that  repeated  and  prolonged  the  same  insult  to  the 
echo. 

Mademoiselle  was  bewildered,  astounded,  lis- 
tening as  in  a  theatre.  Never  had  she  heard  dis- 
dain falling  from  such  a  height,  contempt  being 
shattered  in  such  a  manner  and  springing  into 
laughter,  a  woman's  utterance  containing  so  much 
of  vengeance  against  a  man.  She  searched  her 
memory;  such  acting,  such  intonations,  a  voice 
so  dramatic  and  lacerating  as  this  consumptive, 
heart-breaking  one,  she  could  recollect  only  with 
Mademoiselle  Rachel. 

At  last  Germinie  awoke  abruptly,  her  eyes 
filled  with  the  tears  of  her  sleep,  and  she  sprang 
off  the  bed  on  seeing  that  her  mistress  had  come 
back. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  latter  to  her,  "don't 
trouble.  Sprawl  away  on  my  bed,  as  you  are 
doing!" 

"Oh!  mademoiselle,"  said  Germinie,  "I  was 
not  where  you  lay  your  head.  There,  that  will 
warm  your  feet!" 

"Well,  just  tell  me  what  you  were  dreaming 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

about.     There  was  a  man  in  it,  and  you  were 
arguing." 

"I?"  said  Germinie,   "I  have  forgotten." 
And  seeking  after   her  dreams   she   began   to 
silently  undress  her  mistress.    When  she  had  put 
her  into  bed: 

"Ah!  mademoiselle,"  she  said  to  her  as  she 
tucked  in  the  clothes,  "won't  you  give  me  a  fort- 
night, just  for  once,  to  go  home?  I  remember 
now  —  " 


XLII 

SOON  afterwards  mademoiselle  was  astonished 
by  an  entire  change  in  the  manner  of  life  and 
habits  of  her  maid.  Germinie  lost  her  sullen- 
ness,  her  wild  tempers,  her  rebelliousness,  her  word- 
mutterings  wherein  scolded  her  discontent.  She 
suddenly  emerged  from  her  laziness,  and  recovered 
zeal  in  her  work.  She  no  longer  took  whole  hours 
to  do  her  shopping;  she  seemed  to  shun  the  street. 
She  went  out  no  more  in  the  evening;  she  scarcely 
stirred  from  mademoiselle's  side,  encompassing 
her,  tending  her  from  her  rising  to  her  bedtime, 
taking  continuous,  incessant,  almost  irritating 
care  of  her,  never  allowing  her  to  get  up,  or  even 
to  stretch  out  her  hand  to  take  anything,  serving 
her,  watching  over  her  as  over  a  child.  At  times, 
wearied  of  this  eternal  occupation  about  her  per- 
son, mademoiselle  would  open  her  mouth  to  say  to 
her: 

"Well  now!  are  you  going  to  decamp  from  here 
soon!" 

But  Germinie  would  turn  her  smile  upon  her, 
a  smile  so  sad  and  so  sweet  that  it  checked  the 
impatience  on  the  old  maid's  lips.  And  Germinie 
would  continue  to  remain  near  her  with  a  sort  of 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

charmed  and  divinely  stupid  look,  in  the  immo- 
bility of  profound  adoration,  the  absorption  of 
almost  idiotic  contemplation. 

The  reason  was  that  at  this  juncture  all  the 
poor  girl's  affection  was  returning  towards  made- 
moiselle. Her  voice,  her  gestures,  her  eyes,  her 
silence,  her  thoughts  went  out  to  her  mistress's 
person  with  a  fervor  of  an  expiation,  the  contri- 
tion of  a  prayer,  the  transport  of  a  religion.  She 
loved  her  with  all  the  tender  violence  of  her  nature. 
She  loved  her  with  all  the  betrayals  of  her  passion. 
She  would  fain  have  rendered  to  her  all  that  she 
had  not  given  her,  all  that  others  had  taken  from 
her.  Every  day  her  love  embraced  her  mistress 
more  closely,  more  religiously,  so  that  the  old 
maiden  lady  felt  herself  pressed,  enwrapped, 
gently  warmed  by  the  glow  of  two  arms  that  were 
thrown  about  her  old  age. 


C  214] 


XLIII 

BUT  the  past  and  her  debts  were  always  with 
her,  and  every  hour  repeating  to  her: 
"If  mademoiselle  knew!" 

She  lived  in  a  criminal's  agony,  in  trembling 
pain  from  which  no  instant  was  free.  Not  a  ring 
came  to  the  door  that  she  did  not  say  to  herself, 
"There  it  is!"  Letters  in  a  strange  handwriting 
filled  her  with  anxiety.  She  tortured  the  wax  with 
her  fingers,  she  thrust  them  into  her  pocket,  she 
hesitated  about  giving  them,  and  the  moment 
at  which  mademoiselle  opened  the  terrible  paper, 
and  ran  over  it  with  an  old  woman's  indifferent 
eye,  cost  her  the  emotion  that  is  caused  by  an 
expected  sentence  of  death.  She  felt  her  secret 
and  her  falsehood  to  be  in  everyone's  keeping.  The 
house  had  seen  it  and  could  speak.  The  neighbor- 
hood knew  it.  Her  mistress  was  the  only  person 
left  of  those  round  about  her  whose  good  opinion 
she  could  steal. 

Going  up  and  down  stairs  she  encountered  the 
concierge's  glance,  a  glance  which  smiled  and  said 
to  her:  "I  know!"  She  no  longer  ventured  to 
call  him  familiarly:  "My  Pipelet."  When  she 
came  in,  he  used  to  look  into  her  basket.  "Ah, 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

I  am  so  fond  of  that!"  his  wife  would  say  when 
there  was  something  good.  In  the  evening  she 
would  bring  them  down  what  was  left.  She  could 
no  longer  eat.  In  the  end  she  fed  them. 

The  whole  street  alarmed  her  like  the  staircase 
and  the  concierge's  lodge.  In  every  shop  there  was 
a  face  that  reflected  her  shame  and  speculated 
upon  her  guilt.  At  every  step  she  was  forced  to 
purchase  silence  at  the  cost  of  humility  and  sub- 
missiveness.  The  tradespeople  whom  she  had 
been  unable  to  repay  had  a  hold  upon  her.  If  she 
considered  anything  too  dear,  some  jeering  woman 
would  remind  her  that  they  were  masters  and  that 
she  must  pay  if  she  did  not  wish  to  be  exposed. 
A  jest,  an  allusion  would  make  her  turn  pale.  She 
was  tied  to  the  place,  obliged  to  deal  there,  to  allow 
her  pockets  to  be  ransacked  as  though  by  accom- 
plices. 

The  new  dairy-woman,  successor  to  Madame 
Jupillon,  who  had  left  to  keep  a  grocer's  shop  at 
Bar-sur-Aube,  would  palm  off  her  bad  milk  upon 
her,  and  when  she  told  her  that  mademoiselle  com- 
plained about  it  and  scolded  her  every  morning: 

"Your  mademoiselle!"  replied  the  dairy-woman, 
"don't  tell  me  she  bothers  you!" 

When  she  smelt  a  fish  at  the  fishmonger's  and 
said  to  her: 

"  It's  been  on  the  ice." 

"Nonsense!"  the  woman  would  return,  "say 
at  once  that  I  put  the  influence  of  the  moon  into  its 

[216] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

gills  to  make  it  look  fresh!  And  so,  my  dear, 
people  are  hard  to  please  to-day!" 

Mademoiselle  wished  her  to  go  to  the  central 
market  on  account  of  a  dinner-party;  she  spoke 
of  this  in  presence  of  the  fruiterer: 

"Ah!  yes,  indeed,  to  the  market!  I  should  like 
to  see  you  going  to  the  market!'* 

And  she  cast  a  glance  at  Germinie  in  which  the 
latter  could  see  the  bill  she  owed  sent  up  to  her 
mistress. 

The  grocer  sold  her  his  snuffy  coffee,  his  damaged 
prunes,  his  spoilt  rice,  his  old  biscuits.  When 
she  took  courage  to  make  some  remark: 

"Tut!"  he  would  say,  "surely  an  old  customer 
like  you  wouldn't  find  fault.  When  I  tell  you  that 
what  I  give  you  is  good  —  " 

And  he  would  cynically  weigh  for  her  with  false 
weights  what  she  asked  for  and  what  he  made  her 
ask  for. 


XLIV 

IT  was  a  great  trial  to  Germinie  —  a  trial  which 
she   sought,   nevertheless  —  to   pass    through 
a  street  in  which  there  was  a  school  for  little 
girls,  on  her  way  back  after  getting  mademoiselle's 
evening    paper    before    dinner.      She    frequently 
found  herself  in  front  of  the  door  at  the  hour  when 
school  was  over;    she  wished  to  escape,  and  she 
would  stand  still. 

There  was  first  the  sound  of  a  swarm,  a  hum- 
ming, a  great  joyousness  of  children  such  as  fills 
the  Parisian  street  with  prattling.  From  the  dark 
and  narrow  passage  running  beside  the  school- 
room, the  little  ones  escaped  as  from  an  open  cage, 
ran  off  pell-mell,  hastened  onwards,  frolicking  in 
the  sun.  They  pushed  and  hustled  one  another, 
tossing  their  empty  baskets  over  their  heads. 
Then  the  groups  called  to  one  another  and  formed; 
little  hands  went  out  to  other  little  hands;  friends 
gave  their  arms  to  one  another;  couples  took  each 
other  round  the  waist  or  held  each  other  round  the 
neck,  and  began  to  walk,  eating  the  same  slice 
of  bread  and  butter.  The  troop  soon  advanced, 
and  all  loitering  went  slowly  up  the  dirty  street. 
The  tallest,  who  were  ten  years  old,  would  stop  to 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

talk,  like  little  women,  at  the  gate-ways.  Others 
would  halt  to  drink  from  their  luncheon  bottles. 
The  smallest  amused  themselves  by  wetting  the 
soles  of  their  shoes  in  the  gutter.  And  there  were 
some  who  would  put  a  cabbage-leaf  that  they  had 
picked  up  from  the  ground  on  their  heads,  a  green 
cap  from  the  good  God  beneath  which  laughed 
their  fresh  little  faces. 

Germinie  would  watch  them  all  and  walk  with 
them.  She  joined  their  ranks  that  she  might  feel 
the  rustling  of  their  pinafores.  She  could  not  take 
her  eyes  off  the  little  arms  with  the  satchels  jog- 
ging beneath  them,  the  little  brown-spotted  dresses, 
the  little  black  drawers,  the  little  legs  in  their 
little  woollen  stockings.  To  her  there  seemed  to 
be  a  kind  of  divine  light  on  all  these  fair  little 
heads,  with  their  soft  tresses  like  those  of  the  in- 
fant Jesus.  A  playful  little  lock  on  a  little  neck, 
a  trifle  of  childish  flesh  above  the  edge  of  a  chemise, 
or  below  a  sleeve,  this  was,  at  times,  all  that  she 
saw:  to  her  it  was  the  whole  sunshine  of  the  street, 
—  and  Heaven! 

Meanwhile  the  troop  was  diminishing.  Every 
street  drew  off  the  children  of  the  neighboring 
streets.  The  school  was  dispersing  on  the  road- 
way. The  gaiety  of  all  these  little  footsteps  was 
gradually  dying  away.  The  little  dresses  were 
disappearing  one  by  one.  Germinie  followed  the 
last;  she  attached  herself  to  those  who  went  the 
farthest. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

On  one  occasion,  when  walking  in  this  way,  and 
feeding  her  eyes  upon  the  memory  of  her  daughter, 
she  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  passion  for  kissing 
and  darted  upon  one  of  the  children,  grasping  it 
by  the  arm  with  the  gesture  of  a  child-stealer. 

"Mamma!  mamma!"  the  little  one  called  and 
wept,  as  she  made  her  escape. 

Germinie  fled. 


£2203 


XLV 

WITH  Germinie  the  days  followed  one 
another  alike,  equally  sorrowful  and  dark. 
She  had  finally  ceased  to  expect  anything 
from  chance  and  to  ask  anything  from  the  unfore- 
seen. Her  life  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  shut 
up  for  ever  in  its  despair:  it  was  still  to  be  always 
the  same  merciless  thing,  the  same  smooth,  straight 
road  of  misfortune,  the  same  pathway  of  shadow 
with  death  at  the  end.  In  time  there  ceased  to  be 
a  future  for  her.  And  yet,  amid  the  hopelessness 
in  which  she  cowered,  there  passed  through  her  at 
times  thoughts  which  made  her  raise  her  head  and 
look  out  before  her  and  beyond  her  present.  At 
times  the  illusion  of  a  lost  hope  smiled  upon  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  might  still  be  happy,  and 
that,  if  certain  things  took  place,  she  would  be  so. 
Then  she  imagined  these  things  to  herself.  She 
arranged  accidents  and  catastrophes.  She  linked 
the  impossible  to  the  impossible.  She  renewed  all 
the  chances  of  her  life.  And  her  fevered  hope, 
setting  itself  to  create  on  the  horizon  the  events 
of  her  desire,  soon  grew  intoxicated  with  the  mad 
vision  of  its  hypothesis. 

Then  by  degrees  this  delirium  of  hope  departed 

C22I] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

from  Germinic.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  im- 
possible, that  nothing  of  what  she  dreamed  could 
come  to  pass,  and  she  used  to  remain  absorbed  in 
reflections,  and  sunk  upon  her  chair.  Soon,  after 
a  few  moments,  she  would  get  up,  go  in  a  slow 
and  uncertain  fashion  to  the  fireplace,  groping 
on  the  chimney-piece  for  the  coffee-pot,  and  make 
up  her  mind  to  take  it;  she  was  going  to  learn 
the  remainder  of  her  life.  Her  weal  and  her  woe, 
all  that  was  to  happen  to  her  was  there,  in  the 
fortune  of  this  woman  of  the  People,  on  the  plate 
upon  which  she  had  just  poured  the  dregs  of  the 
coffee. 

She  drained  off  the  liquid  from  the  dregs,  waited 
for  a  few  minutes,  breathed  upon  it  with  the  reli- 
gious breath  with  which  her  childish  lips  used  to 
touch  the  paten  at  the  church  in  her  village.  Then, 
bending  down,  she  kept  her  head  advanced,  dread- 
ful in  its  immobility,  with  fixed,  absorbed  eyes 
bent  upon  the  black  trail  scattered  in  spots  on  the 
plate.  She  sought  for  what  she  had  seen  fortune- 
tellers find  in  the  granulations  and  'almost  im- 
perceptible dottings  left  by  the  residue  of  the 
coffee  on  being  poured  off.  She  exhausted  her 
sight  upon  these  thousands  of  little  spots,  discover- 
ing in  them  shapes,  letters,  signs.  She  separated 
some  of  the  grains  with  her  finger  in  order  to  have 
a  clearer  and  plainer  view  of  them.  She  turned 
and  revolved  the  plate  slowly  in  her  hands,  ques- 
tioned her  mystery  on  all  sides,  and  pursued  in 

1:222] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

to  its  circle  of  appearances,  images,  name-rudi- 
ments, shadows  of  initials,  likenesses  of  somebody, 
outlines  of  something,  embryos  of  omens,  fig- 
urations of  nothing,  which  announced  to  her 
that  she  would  be  "victorious.'*  She  wanted 
to  see,  and  she  compelled  herself  to  guess. 
Beneath  the  intensity  of  her  gaze,  the  china  be- 
came animate  with  her  waking  visions;  her 
griefs,  her  hatreds,  the  faces  that  she  detested, 
rose  up  little  by  little  from  the  magic  plate  and 
the  designs  of  chance.  Beside  her,  the  candle, 
which  she  forgot  to  snuff,  cast  its  intermittent 
and  expiring  gleam;  the  light  sank  into  silence, 
the  hour  passed  into  night,  and  Germinie,  as 
though  petrified  in  arrested  anguish,  remained 
still  riveted  there,  alone,  and  face  to  face  with  the 
terror  of  the  future,  seeking  to  distinguish  the 
confused  features  of  her  destiny  in  the  specks  of 
the  coffee,  until  she  believed  that  she  could  see  a 
cross  by  the  side  of  a  woman,  who  looked  like 
Jupillon's  cousin,  a  cross,  that  is  to  say  an 
approaching  death. 


£223:1 


XLVI 

THE  love  which  she  lacked,  and  which  she 
wished  to  deny  herself,  then  became  the 
torture  of  her  life,  an  incessant  and  abomi- 
nable anguish.  She  had  to  defend  herself  against 
the  feverishness  of  her  body,  and  stimulations 
from  without  against  the  ready  emotions,  and 
weak  cowardliness  of  her  flesh,  against  all  the 
natural  solicitations  that  assailed  her.  She  had 
to  wrestle  with  the  heat  of  the  daytime,  with  the 
suggestions  of  the  night,  with  the  moist  warmth 
of  the  hours  of  storm,  with  the  breath  of  her  past 
and  of  her  recollections,  with  the  things  suddenly 
depicted  within  her,  with  the  voices  that  whispered 
kisses  in  her  ear,  with  the  quiverings  that  gave 
fondness  to  every  limb 

For  weeks  and  months  and  years  her  tempta- 
tion lasted,  and  she  did  not  yield  to  it,  did  not 
take  another  lover.  Dreading  herself,  she  shunned 
man  and  fled  from  his  sight.  She  continued  to  be 
unsociable  and  a  recluse  shut  up  with  mademoi- 
selle, or  else  upstairs  in  her  own  room;  and  she 
no  longer  went  out  on  Sundays.  She  had  given 
up  seeing  the  servants  belonging  to  the  house, 
and,  to  ensure  occupation  and  self-forgetfulness, 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

she  plunged  into  extensive  sewing-tasks,  or  buried 
herself  in  sleep.  When  musicians  came  into  the 
courtyard  she  used  to  shut  her  windows  that  she 
might  not  hear  them,  for  the  voluptuousness  of 
music  melted  her  soul. 

In  spite  of  it  all  she  could  not  grow  either  calm 
or  cold.  Her  evil  thoughts  kindled  spontaneously, 
lived  and  struggled  of  themselves.  At  all  times  the 
fixed  idea  of  desire  uprose  from  her  entire  being, 
became  throughout  her  whole  person  that  wild 
unending  torment,  that  delirium  of  the  senses  in 
the  brain:  obsession,  —  obsession  which  nothing 
can  drive  away  and  which  always  returns,  shame- 
less, desperate,  image-swarming  obsession  which 
introduces  love  through  all  a  woman's  sense, 
communicates  it  to  her  shut  eyes,  rolls  it  reeking 
through  her  head,  drives  it  hot  through  her 
arteries ! 

In  time,  the  nervous  shock  of  these  continual 
assaults,  the  irritation  of  this  painful  continence, 
began  to  confuse  Germinie's  powers  of  perception. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  rest  on  her  temptations;  a 
frightful  hallucination  brought  close  to  her  senses 
the  reality  of  their  dreams.  It  came  to  pass  that 
at  certain  times,  whatever  she  saw,  whatever  was 
before  her,  the  chandeliers,  the  legs  of  the  furni- 
ture, the  arms  of  the  easy  chairs,  everything  about 
her  assumed  appearances  and  forms  of  impurity. 
Obscenity  sprang  up  from  all  that  was  before  her 
eyes,  and  came  to  her.  Then,  looking  at  the  time 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

by  the  cuckoo-clock  in  her  kitchen,  like  a  con- 
demned criminal  no  longer  in  possession  of  her 
own  person,  she  would  say: 

"In  five  minutes  I  shall  go  down  into  the 
street  - 

And  when  the  five  minutes  were  over,  she  re- 
mained where  she  was  and  did  not  go  down. 


£226:1 


XLVII 

THERE  came  a  time  in  this  life  when  Ger- 
minie  resigned  the  struggle.  Her  con- 
science yielded,  her  will  bent,  and  she 
bowed  to  the  fate  of  her  life.  All  that  was  left  to 
her  of  resolution,  energy  and  courage  departed 
before  her  sense,  her  despairing  conviction,  of 
her  powerlessness  to  save  herself  from  herself. 
She  felt  that  she  was  in  the  current  of  something 
which  was  ever  moving,  and  which  it  was  useless, 
almost  impious,  to  attempt  to  stay.  That  great 
world-force  which  imposes  suffering,  that  evil 
power,  Fatality,  which  on  the  marble  of  ancient 
tragedies  bears  the  name  of  a  god,  and  on  the 
tattooed  brow  of  the  galleys  is  called  No  Luck,  was 
crushing  her,  and  Germinie  bowed  her  head  be- 
neath its  foot. 

When  in  her  hours  of  discouragement  she  again 
experienced  in  memory  the  bitterness  of  her  past, 
when  she  traced  from  childhood  the  links  in  her 
mournful  existence,  that  file  of  sorrows  which  had 
accompanied  her  years  and  grown  with  them,  the 
whole  sequence  of  her  life  which  had  been  like  a 
conjunction  and  adjustment  of  wretchedness 
wherein  she  had  never  distinguished  the  hand  of 

£227;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

that  Providence  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much 
-  she  told  herself  that  she  was  one  of  those  un- 
fortunates devoted  at  their  birth  to  an  eternity 
of  misery,  one  of  those  for  whom  happiness  was 
not  intended,  and  who  are  acquainted  with  it 
only  by  envying  it  in  others.  She  fed  and  feasted 
on  this  thought,  and  from  searching  into  the  de- 
spair that  it  caused  her,  from  sifting  within  her- 
self the  continuity  of  her  misfortunes  and  the 
sequence  of  her  griefs,  she  came  to  see  the  per- 
secution of  her  ill-luck  in  the  pettiest  mischances 
of  her  life  and  work. 

A  little  money  lent  by  her,  and  not  repaid,  a 
bad  coin  given  her  in  a  shop,  a  commission  which 
she  executed  badly,  a  purchase  in  which  she  had 
been  deceived,  all  these  things  never  resulted  with 
her  from  her  own  fault  or  from  accident.  It  was 
the  sequel  to  the  rest.  Life  was  in  a  conspiracy 
against  her,  and  persecuted  her  in  everything, 
everywhere,  in  small  things  as  well  as  in  great, 
from  her  daughter's  death  to  the  badness  of  the 
grocery.  There  were  days  on  which  she  broke 
everything  that  she  touched,  and  she  then 
imagined  that  she  was  cursed  to  the  very  finger 
tips.  Cursed!  ay,  damned  almost,  as  she  per- 
suaded herself  when  she  questioned  her  body, 
when  she  sounded  her  senses.  Did  she  not  feel 
stirring  in  the  fire  of  her  blood,  in  the  appetite  of 
her  organs,  in  her  burning  weakness,  the  Fatality 
of  Love,  the  mystery  and  domination  of  a  disease 

C228: 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

which  was  stronger  than  her  modesty  or  her  rea- 
son, which  had  already  delivered  her  over  to  the 
shamefulness  of  passion,  and  which  —  she  knew 
by  presentiment  —  was  to  do  so  again. 

Thus  she  had  now  only  a  single  utterance  upon 
her  lips,  an  utterance  which  was  the  refrain  of  her 
thoughts : 

"What  can  you  expect?  I  am  unfortunate: 
I  have  no  luck.  Nothing  succeeds  with  me." 

She  used  to  say  this  like  a  woman  who  has 
resigned  hope.  With  the  thought  which  every 
day  became  more  rooted,  that  she  had  been  born 
under  an  unfavorable  star,  that  she  belonged  to 
hatreds  and  vengeances  higher  than  herself,  a 
terror  came  to  her  of  everything  that  happens  in 
life.  She  lived  in  that  cowardly  anxiety  in  which 
the  unforeseen  is  dreaded  like  a  calamity  about 
to  make  its  appearance,  in  which  a  ring  at  the 
bell  alarms,  in  which  we  turn  a  letter  over  and 
over,  weighing  its  mystery,  and  not  daring  to  open 
it,  in  which  the  news  that  you  are  going  to  hear, 
the  lips  that  are  parted  to  speak  to  you,  bring  the 
perspiration  to  your  temples.  She  had  come  to 
be  in  that  state  of  mistrust,  of  nervousness,  of 
trembling  at  destiny,  in  which  misfortune  sees 
only  misfortune,  and  in  which  one  would  fain 
stay  his  life  that  it  may  pause,  and  cease  to  ad- 
vance yonder,  whither  all  the  desires  and  expecta- 
tions of  others  are  impelling  it. 

At  last  she  arrived  through  tears  at  that  supreme 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

disdain,  that  pinnacle  of  suffering,  where  the  ex- 
cess of  pain  is  like  irony,  where  sorrow,  passing 
beyond  the  bounds  of  the  strength  of  the  human 
creature,  passes  beyond  its  sensitiveness,  and 
where  the  heart  stricken  and  no  longer  sensible  to 
blows  says  defiantly  to  Heaven: 
"Again!" 


£230:1 


XLVIII 

WHERE  are  you  going  in  that  style?"  said 
Germinie  one  Sunday  morning  to  Adele, 
who,  dressed  all  in  her  best,  was  passing 
before  the  open  doorway  of  her  room  on  the  corri- 
dor of  the  sixth  floor. 

"I'm  off  to  a  proper  jollification.  There's  a  lot 
of  us  —  big  Marie,  you  know,  the  big  dare-devil 
—  Elisa  from  41,  both  the  Badiniers,  tall  and 
short  —  ay,  and  men  too.  First  of  all,  I  shall  have 
my  'dealer  in  sudden  death.'  Well  —  ah,  you 
don't  know  who  that  is?  —  my  last,  the  fencing- 
master  of  the  24th;  and  then  there's  one  of  his 
friends,  a  painter  and  a  regular  jolly  fellow.  We're 
going  to  Vincennes.  Everybody's  taking  some- 
thing and  we're  to  have  dinner  on  the  grass.  The 
gentlemen  will  pay  for  the  drink,  and  we'll  have 
some  fun,  I  promise  you." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Germinie. 
'You?     Nonsense!  why,  you  have  done  with 
parties." 

"I  tell  you  I'll  go,  and  I  will,"  said  Germinie, 
with  abrupt  decision.  "Just  give  me  time  to  let 
mademoiselle  know,  and  to  put  on  a  dress.  Wait  for 
me  and  I'll  get  half  a  lobster  at  the  pork-butcher's." 

£231:] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  the  two  women  set  out, 
went  along  by  the  boundary  wall,  and  found  the 
rest  of  the  company  at  table  outside  a  cafe  on  the 
Boulevard  de  la  Chopinette.  After  having  some 
black  currant  ratafia  all  round,  they  got  into  two 
large  cabs  and  rolled  away.  On  reaching  Vin- 
cennes  they  alighted  in  front  of  the  fort,  and  the 
whole  band  began  to  walk  in  a  troop  along  the 
slope  of  the  trench.  As  they  passed  in  front  of 
the  wall  of  the  fort  the  fencing-master's  friend,  the 
painter,  called  out  to  an  artillery-man  on  duty 
beside  a  cannon: 

"I  say,  old  boy,  you'd  rather  drink  one  than 
mount  guard  over  it."  * 

"How  funny  he  is,"  said  Adele  to  Germinie, 
giving  her  a  great  nudge  with  her  elbow. 

Soon  they  were  quite  in  the  Bois  de  Vincennes. 

Narrow  beaten  tracks,  full  of  footprints,  crossed 
one  another  in  all  directions  over  the  trampled 
and  hardened  earth.  In  the  spaces  between  these 
little  paths,  there  stretched  patches  of  grass,  but 
grass  that  was  crushed,  dried  up,  yellow  and  dead, 
scattered  about  like  litter,  the  straw-colored  blades 
of  which  were  entangled  on  all  sides  with  brush- 
wood amid  the  dull  greenery  of  nettles.  Here 
might  be  recognized  one  of  those  rural  spots  to 
which  the  great  suburbs  go  to  lounge  on  Sundays, 
and  which  remain  like  turf  trampled  by  a  crowd 

*"Cannon"  (cannon)  is  a  slang  term  for  a  glass  of  wine  drunk  at 
the  bar  of  a  wine-shop. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

after  a  display  of  fireworks.  Twisted,  ill-grown 
trees  stood  at  intervals,  small  elms  with  grey 
trunks,  spotted  with  yellow  leprosy,  and  lopped 
to  the  height  of  a  man,  sickly  oaks  eaten  by  cater- 
pillars, and  with  only  the  lace-work  of  their  leaves 
remaining.  The  verdure  was  paltry,  wasted  and 
scanty;  the  leafage  in  the  air  looked  thin;  the 
stunted,  worn,  and  scorched  foliation,  merely 
speckled  the  sky  with  green.  The  flying  dust  of 
high  roads  covered  the  ground  with  grey.  The 
whole  had  the  wretchedness  and  leanness  of  a 
trampled  and  choked  vegetation,  the  sorry  look 
of  verdure  on  the  outskirts  of  a  city,  where  nature 
seemed  to  be  issuing  from  the  pavement.  No 
song  in  the  branches,  no  insect  on  the  beaten  soil; 
the  noise  of  the  carts  bewildered  the  birds;  the 
organ  suppressed  the  silence  and  quivering  of 
the  wood;  the  street  passed  humming  through 
the  landscape. 

On  the  trees  hung  women's  hats  fastened  into 
handkerchiefs  with  four  pins;  an  artilleryman's 
tuft  shone  red  every  moment  through  openings 
in  the  leaves;  cake-sellers  rose  amid  the  thickets; 
on  the  bare  turf,  bloused  children  were  cutting 
sticks,  workmen's  families  were  trifling  away  the 
time  and  eating  cake,  urchin's  caps  were  catching 
butterflies.  It  was  one  of  the  woods  modelled  on 
the  old  Bois  de  Boulogne,  dusty  and  broiling,  a 
vulgar  and  tawdry  promenade,  one  of  those  places 
of  niggardly  shade,  where  the  people  go  for  an 

C2333 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

outing  at  the  gates  of  capitals,  parodies  of  forests, 
full  of  corks,  where  bits  of  melon  rind  and  suicides 
are  to  be  found  in  the  underwood. 

The  heat  that  day  was  stifling;  there  was  a 
faint  and  cloud-wrapped  sun,  a  strong,  veiled 
and  diffused  light  which  almost  blinded  the  gaze. 
The  air  had  a  dull  heaviness;  nothing  moved; 
the  greenery  with  its  hard  shadows  did  not  stir, 
the  wood  was  weary  and  as  though  crushed  be- 
neath the  heavy  sky.  Now  and  then  only,  a 
breath  of  air  would  arise,  trailing  and  skimming 
the  ground.  A  south  wind  would  pass,  one  of 
those  enervating  winds,  fallow  and  flat  which 
blow  upon  the  senses,  and  inflame  the  breath  of 
desire.  Without  knowing  whence  the  sensation 
came,  Germinie  felt,  passing  over  her  whole  body, 
something  that  was  akin  to  the  tickling  caused 
by  the  down  of  a  ripe  peach  upon  the  skin. 

They  went  on  merrily,  with  that  somewhat 
intoxicated  activity  which  the  country  causes  in 
those  who  are  of  the  people.  The  men  ran,  and 
the  women  skipped  after  them  and  caught  them. 
They  played  at  rolling  about.  There  was  eager- 
ness to  dance  among  them,  and  desire  to  climb 
the  trees;  while  the  painter  amused  himself  by 
throwing  pebbles  from  a  distance  into  the  loop- 
holes in  the  gates  of  the  fortress,  which  he  always 
succeeded  in  doing. 

At  last  they  all  sat  down  in  a  sort  of  glade,  at 
the  foot  of  a  clump  of  oaks,  the  shadow  of  which 

£234] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

was  lengthening  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 
The  men,  lighting  matches  on  the  drill  of  their 
trousers,  began  to  smoke.  The  women  chattered, 
laughed,  threw  themselves  back  every  minute  in 
loud  fits  of  silly  hilarity,  and  shrill  bursts  of  joy. 
Germinie  alone  remained  without  speaking  or 
laughing.  She  did  not  listen,  she  did  not  look. 
Her  eyes,  beneath  her  lowered  eyelids,  were  fixed 
steadily  upon  the  toes  of  her  boots.  Absorbed 
in  herself,  she  seemed  to  be  absent  from  the  actual 
place  and  hour.  Lying  stretched  at  full  length 
on  the  grass,  with  her  head  somewhat  raised  by  a 
clod  of  earth,  the  only  movement  that  she  made 
was  to  lay  the  palms  of  her  hands  flat  on  the  grass 
beside  her;  then  after  a  short  time  she  would 
turn  them  upon  their  backs  and  rest  them  in  the 
same  way,  repeating  this  constantly  that  she 
might  get  the  freshness  of  the  earth  to  allay  the 
burning  of  her  skin. 

"There's  a  lazy  hussy!  are  you  snoring?"  said 
Adele  to  her. 

Germinie  opened  wide  her  burning  eyes  without 
answering  her,  and  until  dinner-time  she  pre- 
served the  same  attitude,  the  same  silence,  the  same 
lethargy,  feeling  around  her  for  the  places  upon 
which  she  had  not  yet  laid  the  fever  of  her  hands. 

"Adele!"  said  a  woman's  voice,  "sing  us  some- 
thing." 

"Ah!"  replied  Adele,  "I  haven't  wind  enough 
before  eating." 

£235!! 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Suddenly  a  big  paving  stone,  hurled  through 
the  air,  fell  beside  Germinie  close  to  her  head; 
at  the  same  moment  she  heard  the  painter's  voice 
calling  to  her: 

"Don't  be  frightened.     It's  your  chair." 

Each  one  put  his  handkerchief  on  the  ground 
by  way  of  table-cloth.  The  eatables  were  un- 
twisted from  the  greasy  papers.  Some  quart 
bottles  being  uncorked,  the  wine  went  round, 
foaming  in  glasses  wedged  between  tufts  of  grass, 
and  all  began  to  eat  pork-butcher's  meat  on 
slices  of  bread  and  butter  which  served  as  plates. 
The  painter  carved,  made  paper  boats  to  hold  the 
salt,  imitated  the  orders  of  the  cafe  waiters,  calling 
out: 

"Bourn!    The  Pavilion!    Serve!" 

By  degrees  the  party  became  animated.  The 
atmosphere,  the  wine  and  the  food  stimulated 
the  merriment  of  the  open-air  repast.  Hands 
grew  neighborly,  lips  met,  free  expressions  were 
whispered  in  the  ear,  shirt  sleeves  encircled  waists 
for  a  moment,  and  from  time  to  time  greedy  kisses 
echoed  amid  unrestrained  embraces. 

Germinie  said  nothing  and  drank.  The  painter, 
who  had  placed  himself  beside  her,  felt  himself 
becoming  stiff  and  embarrassed  with  this  singular 
neighbor  who  amused  herself  "so  internally." 
Suddenly  with  his  knife,  he  began  to  beat  a  tattoo 
on  his  glass  which  sounded  above  the  noise  of  the 
party  and  raising  himself  on  both  knees: 

C236U 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Ladies!"  he  said  in  a  voice,  like  that  of  a 
parrot  which  has  been  talking  too  much,  "To 
the  health  of  a  man  in  misfortune:  to  mine! 
Perhaps,  that  will  bring  me  good  luck.  Jilted, 
yes,  ladies;  well,  yes,  I've  been  jilted.  I'm  a 
widower,  an  out  and  out  widower  —  clean!  I'm 
as  bewildered  as  a  bell-founder.  It's  not  that  I 
cared  particularly  about  it,  but  habit,  that  old 
rascal,  habit's  the  cause  of  it.  In  fact  I'm  bothered 
as  much  as  a  bug  in  a  watch-spring.  For  the  last 
fortnight,  life  has  with  me  been  like  a  cup  of  coffee 
without  a  drop  of  brandy  in  it.  I  who  love  love 
as  if  it  had  made  me.  No  woman!  That's  a 
weaning  for  a  man  of  years!  Since  I've  known 
what  it  is,  I've  had  respect  for  the  priests;  I 
quite  feel  for  them,  I  do,  on  my  word  of  honor. 
No  longer  a  woman,  and  there  are  so  many  of  them ! 
But  I  can't  walk  about  with  a  placard:  A  man  to 
let.  Apply  now  to  so  and  so  First,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  be  licensed  by  the  prefect,  and  then 
people  are  so  foolish  that  it  would  create  crowds. 
All  of  which,  ladies,  is  for  the  purpose  of  informing 
you  that,  if  there  were  any  one  among  the  persons 
you  know,  who  would  like  to  form  an  acquaintance 
-  an  honorable  acquaintance  —  a  nice  little  ficti- 
tious marriage,  there  need  be  no  trouble;  here  I 
am  -  -  Victor  Mederic  Gautruche,  a  stay-at-home 
fellow,  a  regular  house  ivy-plant  for  sentiment. 
You've  only  to  ask  at  my  old  lodgings,  at  the 
'Safety-Key.'  And  as  merry  as  a  hunchback 

£237;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

who  has  just  drowned  his  wife.  Gautruche! 
alias  Gogo-la-Gaiete,  there  you  are.  A  nice  easy- 
going young  man  that  doesn't  manufacture  bother- 
ations; a  good  chap  that  takes  things  easy  and 
that's  not  going  to  give  himself  the  stomach-ache 
with  this  Adam's  ale." 

As  he  said  this  he  sent  a  bottle  of  water  that  was 
beside  him  flying  twenty  paces  off. 

"Hurrah  for  the  walls!  They  are  to  this  child 
what  heaven  is  to  God!  Gogo-la-Gaiete  paints 
them  all  the  week,  Gogo-la-Gaiete  stumbles  against 
them  on  Monday!  With  all  this,  not  jealous, 
not  naughty,  not  inclined  to  kick  over  the  traces; 
a  regular  ducky  who  has  never  left  his  mark  on 
any  of  the  other  sex.  As  for  appearance,  well, 
I'm  your  man!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  drawing  up  his  great, 
ill-formed  figure  in  his  old  blue  coat  with  its  gold 
buttons,  lifting  his  grey  hat  to  display  his  bald, 
smooth,  and  perspiring  skull,  and  raising  his  head 
which  was  like  that  of  an  unfeathered  old  bird, 
he  went  on: 

"You  see  what  it  is.  It's  not  an  ornamental 
property,  it's  not  a  flattering  one  to  show  off. 
But  it's  productive,  somewhat  unfurnished,  but 
well  built.  Well,  there  are  forty-nine  years,  as 
much  hair  as  there  is  on  a  billiard-ball,  a  dog's- 
grass  beard  that  you  might  make  tisane  with, 
foundations  that  are  still  pretty  firm,  feet  as  long 
as  La  Villette,  and,  with  all  that,  leanness  enough 

£238:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

to  take  a  bath  in  a  gunbarrel.  That's  the  lot. 
Pass  the  prospectus.  If  there's  a  woman  who'll 
have  the  whole  in  a  lump  —  some  one  that's 
steady,  and  not  too  young,  and  that  won't  amuse 
herself  by  stroking  me  too  much  the  wrong  way 

-You  understand,  I  don't  ask  for  a  princess 
from  BatignoIIes  -  -  Very  well,  then,  it's  a  case!" 

Germinie  seized  Gautruche's  glass,  half-emptied 
it  at  a  draught,  and  held  it  out  to  him  on  the  side 
at  which  she  herself  had  drunk. 

As  evening  was  falling,  the  party  returned  on 
foot.  At  the  wall  of  the  fortifications,  Gautruche 
drew  a  large  heart  on  the  stone  with  cuts  of  his 
knife,  within  which  everyone's  name  was  placed 
beneath  the  date. 

When  night  had  come  Gautruche  and  Ger- 
minie were  on  the  outer  boulevards,  up  as  far  as 
the  Rochechouart  Gate.  Beside  a  low  house 
bearing  a  plaster  panel  whereon  might  be  read: 
Madame  Merlin.  Dresses  cut  out  and  tried  on,  two 
francs,  they  stopped  before  a  little  stone  staircase 
which,  after  the  first  three  steps,  led  into  darkness 
at  the  very  back  of  which  was  the  blood-red  light 
of  an  Argand  lamp.  On  a  cross-beam,  over  the 
entrance,  was  written  in  black  letters: 

Hotel  of  the  Little  Blue  Hand. 
£239  3 


XLIX 

FREDERIC  GAUTRUCHE  was  a  workman 
of  the  jovial,  ne'er-do-weel,  good-for-noth- 
ing kind,  a  workman  who  makes  his  life 
a  holiday.  Filled  with  the  joyousness  of  wine,  his 
lips  perpetually  damp  with  a  last  drop,  his  inside 
befouled  with  tartar  like  an  old  cask,  he  was  one 
of  those  whom  the  Burgundians  energetically  call 
"red  guts."  Always  a  little  drunk,  drunk  from 
over  night  if  not  drinking  during  the  day,  he 
looked  upon  life  through  the  liquor  which  affected 
his  head.  He  smiled  at  his  lot,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  it  with  the  heedlessness  of  the  drunkard, 
smiling  vaguely  at  things  as  he  followed  in  the 
track  of  the  wine-seller,  at  life,  at  the  road  stretch- 
ing away  into  the  night.  Weariness,  anxiety, 
neediness,  had  taken  no  hold  upon  him;  and 
when  a  gloomy,  a  serious  thought  came  to  him, 
he  would  turn  away  his  head,  give  a  sort  of  "psitt" 
which  was  his  way  of  saying  "Hell!"  and  raising 
his  right  arm  towards  Heaven  in  caricature  of  the 
gesture  of  a  Spanish  dancer,  send  his  melancholy 
over  his  shoulder  to  the  devil. 

He  possessed  the  superb  philosophy  that  comes 
after  drinking,  the   jolly  serenity  of  the  bottle. 

£2403 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

He  knew  neither  wish  nor  desire.  His  dreams 
were  served  to  him  across  the  counter.  For  three 
sous  he  was  sure  of  having  a  small  glass  of  happi- 
ness, and  for  twelve  a  quart  of  the  ideal.  Satisfied 
with  everything,  he  liked  everything,  and  found 
laughter  and  amusement  in  everything.  Nothing 
in  the  world  seemed  sad  to  him  except  a  glass  of 
water. 

To  this  tipster-like  expansiveness,  to  the  gaiety 
of  his  health,  and  of  his  temperament,  Gautruche 
united  the  gaiety  of  his  condition,  the  good  humor 
and  high  spirits  of  that  free  and  non-fatiguing 
occupation  out  of  doors  and  in  mid-air,  which 
amuses  itself  by  singing,  and  perches  a  workman's 
humbug  on  a  ladder  over  the  heads  of  the  passers- 
by.  He  was  a  house-painter  and  painted  letters. 
He  was  the  only,  the  single  man  in  Paris  who  could 
attack  a  sign-board  without  measuring  with  string, 
without  a  blank  outline,  the  only  one  who  could 
at  first  trial  put  every  letter  inside  the  border  of 
a  placard  into  its  place,  and  without  losing  a 
minute  in  arranging  them,  could  trace  out  the 
capital  off-hand.  He  was  noted,  further,  for 
"monster"  letters,  whimsical  letters,  shaded 
letters,  picked  out  in  bronze  or  gold  to  imitate 
hollows  in  stone.  Thus  he  would  make  from 
fifteen  to  twenty  francs  in  the  day.  But  as  he 
drank  it  all  he  was  none  the  richer,  and  he  had 
always  arrears  against  him  on  the  slates  in  the 
wine-shops. 

C  ^O 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

He  was  a  man  brought  up  by  the  street.  The 
street  had  been  his  mother,  his  nurse,  and  his 
school.  The  street  had  given  him  his  assurance, 
his  language  and  his  wit.  All  that  an  intellect 
belonging  to  the  people  can  pick  up  on  the  pave- 
ment of  Paris,  he  had  picked  up.  All  that  sinks 
from  the  upper  portions  of  a  great  town  to  the 
lower  —  filtrations,  fragments,  crumbs  of  ideas 
and  of  knowledge,  all  that  is  borne  by  the  subtle 
atmosphere  and  laden  kennel  of  a  capital  -  -  the 
rubbing  up  against  printed  matter,  the  scraps  of 
feuilletons  swallowed  between  two  half-pints,  the 
dramatic  morsels  heard  on  the  boulevards,  had 
imparted  to  him  that  lucky  intelligence  which, 
without  education,  grasps  everything.  He  pos- 
sessed an  inexhaustible,  imperturbable  confidence. 
His  speech  abounded  and  gushed  in  happy  ex- 
pressions, in  funny  images,  in  such  metaphors  as 
issue  from  the  comic  genius  of  crowds.  He  had 
the  picturesque  naturalness  of  open-air  farce.  He 
was  brimful  of  funny  stories  and  jokes,  rich  with 
the  richest  stock  of  the  "Joe  Millers"  of  the 
house-painting  business.  A  member  of  those  low 
caves  of  harmony  called  "lists,"  he  knew  all  the 
airs  and  songs,  and  he  sang  them  unweariedly. 
In  short  he  was  a  droll  fellow  from  top  to  toe. 
And  only  to  look  at  him,  people  would  laugh 
as  at  a  comic  actor. 

A  man  with  this  gaiety,  with  these  high  spirits, 
"suited"  Germinie. 

1:242] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Germinie  was  not  the  working  animal  which 
has  nothing  but  its  duties  in  its  head.  She  was 
not  a  servant  to  stand  open-mouthed  with  fright- 
ened features  and  doltish  demeanor  of  unintelli- 
gence  while  the  words  of  her  employers  passed 
unheeded.  She,  too,  had  been  formed,  had  been 
trained,  had  been  drawn  out  by  the  education 
of  Paris.  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil,  being 
without  occupation,  and  having  an  old  maid's 
curiosity  about  the  stories  of  the  neighborhood,  had 
long  made  her  relate  her  gleaning  of  news,  all  that 
she  knew  about  the  lodgers,  the  whole  chronicle 
of  house  and  street;  and  this  habit  of  narration, 
of  chattering  as  a  sort  of  companion  with  her 
mistress,  of  depicting  people,  of  sketching  sil- 
houettes, had  in  time  developed  in  her  a  facility 
for  lively  expressions,  for  happy,  unconscious 
touches,  a  piquancy  and  sometimes  a  keenness  of 
observation  remarkable  in  the  mouth  of  a  servant. 

She  had  often  surprised  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil by  her  liveliness  of  comprehension,  her 
promptness  to  grasp  half-uttered  thoughts,  her 
happiness  and  readiness  in  finding  such  words 
as  would  be  employed  by  a  good  speaker.  She 
knew  how  to  jest.  She  understood  a  play  on 
words.  She  expressed  herself  without  mispronun- 
ciation, and  when  there  was  any  orthographical 
discussion  at  the  dairy,  she  decided  the  question 
with  an  authority  equal  to  that  of  the  registrar 
of  deaths  at  the  Town  Hall,  who  used  to  come  there 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

for  his  breakfast.  She  had  also  that  foundation 
of  miscellaneous  reading  which  women  of  her  class 
possess  when  they  read.  In  the  service  of  the  two 
or  three  kept  women  with  whom  she  had  been, 
she  had  spent  her  nights  in  devouring  novels; 
since  then  she  had  continued  to  read  the  feuilletons 
cut  from  the  bottom  of  the  papers  by  all  her 
acquaintances;  and  from  these  she  had  retained 
a  sort  of  vague  idea  of  many  things,  and  of  a  few 
kings  of  France.  She  had  preserved  enough  to 
inspire  a  wish  to  talk  of  it  to  others. 

Through  a  woman  belonging  to  the  house  who 
looked  after  the  establishment  of  an  author  in  the 
same  street,  and  who  used  to  have  tickets,  she 
had  often  been  to  the  play;  as  she  returned  home 
she  used  to  recall  the  whole  piece,  and  the  names 
of  the  actors  that  she  had  seen  on  the  programmes. 
She  liked  to  buy  penny  songs,  and  novels,  and 
read  them. 

The  atmosphere,  the  living  breath  of  the  Breda 
quarter  with  all  its  vitality  of  artist  and  studio, 
art  and  vice,  had  quickened  these  intellectual 
tastes  in  Germinie,  and  created  needs,  require- 
ments within  her.  Long  before  the  time  of  her 
loose  habits,  she  had  separated  herself  from  virtu- 
ous society,  from  the  "respectable"  people  of  her 
condition  and  caste,  from  those  who  were  silly, 
stupid,  and  worthy.  She  had  withdrawn  from 
surroundings  of  steady,  narrow-minded  probity, 
of  sleepy  gossipings  over  the  teas  given  by  the 

£244;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

old  servants  of  the  old  folk  who  knew  made- 
moiselle. She  had  shunned  the  tediousness  of 
maids  dulled  by  the  consciousness  of  service  and 
the  fascination  of  the  savings  bank.  She  had  come 
to  require  from  those  who  were  to  associate  with 
her  a  certain  intelligence  corresponding  to  her 
own  and  able  to  understand  it. 

And  now,  when  she  was  emerging  from  her 
brutishness,  when  she  was  recovering  and  re- 
viving amid  diversion  and  pleasure,  she  felt  that 
she  must  amuse  herself  with  her  equals  in  capacity. 
She  would  have  about  her  men  who  made  her 
laugh,  violent  merriment,  spirituous  wit  that  in- 
toxicated her  like  the  wine  that  was  poured  out 
for  her.  And  it  was  thus  that  she  turned  towards 
the  low  Bohemia  of  the  people,  noisy,  bewildering, 
intoxicating  as  all  Bohemias  are:  it  was  thus  that 
she  fell  to  a  Gautruche. 


C245D 


AS  Germinie  was  coming  in  one  morning  at 
daybreak,  she  heard  a  voice  call  to  her 
through  the  shadow  of  the  gate  as  it  closed 
behind  her: 

"Who's  that?" 

She  darted  to  the  back  staircase;  but  she  per- 
ceived that  she  was  being  pursued,  and  soon  felt 
herself  seized  by  the  concierge's  hand  at  the 
turning  of  a  landing.  As  soon  as  he  recognized 
her,  he  said: 

"Oh!  beg  pardon,  it's  you;  don't  put  yourself 
about!  My  word,  you're  going  it!  It  astonishes 
you,  does  it,  to  see  me  afoot  so  early?  It's  on 
account  of  the  robbery  lately  in  the  room  of  the 
cook  belonging  to  the  second  floor.  Well,  good- 
night! I  can  tell  you  it's  lucky  for  you  that  I'm 
no  gossip." 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Germinie  learnt  through 
Adele  that  the  husband  of  the  cook  who  had  been 
robbed  was  saying  that  there  was  no  need  to 
search,  for  the  robber  was  in  the  house;  people 
knew  what  they  knew.  Adele  added  that  this 
was  making  a  great  stir  in  the  street,  and  that 
there  were  people  to  repeat  it,  and  believe  it. 

1:246: 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Germinie,  in  indignation,  went  and  told  the  whole 
story  to  her  mistress.  Mademoiselle,  in  still 
greater  indignation,  and  feeling  personally  affected 
by  the  insult,  instantly  wrote  to  the  servant's  mis- 
tress to  put  an  immediate  stop  to  calumnies 
directed  against  a  girl  whom  she  had  had  in  her 
service  for  twenty  years,  and  for  whom  she  would 
answer  as  for  herself.  The  servant  was  repri- 
manded. In  his  anger,  he  spoke  still  more  strongly. 
He  scolded,  and,  for  several  days,  spread  through 
the  house  his  intention  of  going  to  the  Commis- 
sary of  Police,  and  through  him  of  finding  out 
from  Germinie  with  what  money  she  had  stocked 
the  dairy-woman's  son,  with  what  money  she 
had  hired  a  substitute  for  him,  with  what  money 
she  had  met  the  expenses  of  the  men  that  she  had 
had. 

For  a  whole  week  the  terrible  threat  hung  over 
Germinie's  head.  At  last  the  thief  was  discovered, 
and  the  threat  fell  to  the  ground.  But  it  had  had 
its  effect  upon  the  poor  girl.  It  had  wrought  all 
its  evil  in  this  disturbed  brain  in  which,  under  the 
afHux  and  sudden  mounting  of  blood,  reason 
tottered,  and  was  clouded  at  the  slightest  shock 
of  life.  It  had  deranged  the  head  that  was  so 
ready  to  go  astray  under  the  influence  of  fear  or 
annoyance,  so  quick  to  lose  judgment,  discern- 
ment, clearness  of  vision  and  appreciation  of 
things,  exaggerating  everything  to  itself,  falling 
into  foolish  alarms,  evil  forebodings,  and  de- 
ll 247  3 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

spairing  prospects,  feeling  its  terrors  as  though 
they  were  realities,  and  momently  lost  in  the 
pessimism  of  such  delirium  that  finally  it  could 
find  no  other  phrase  or  safety  than  this: 

"Bah!  I'll  kill  myself!" 

During  the  whole  week,  the  fever  of  her  brain 
led  her  through  all  the  modifications  of  that  which 
she  imagined  must  come  to  pass.  Day  and  night, 
she  could  see  her  shame  exposed,  published;  she 
could  see  her  secret,  her  ignominy,  her  faults,  all 
that  she  bore  hidden  about  her  and  locked  in  her 
heart,  she  could  see  it  shown,  displayed,  and  dis- 
covered to  mademoiselle.  Her  debts  for  Jupillon 
increased  by  her  debts  for  Gautruche's  eating 
and  drinking,  and  by  all  that  she  was  now  buying 
on  credit,  her  debts  to  the  doorkeeper  and  to  the 
tradespeople,  were  all  about  to  come  out  and  ruin 
her!  The  thought  made  her  shiver:  she  could  feel 
mademoiselle  driving  her  away. 

Throughout  the  week  she  imagined  at  every 
moment  of  her  thought  that  she  was  before  the 
Commissary  of  Police.  For  seven  whole  days  she 
revolved  the  idea  and  utterance  of  "the  court!" 
the  court  as  it  appears  to  the  imagination  of  the 
lower  orders,  something  terrible,  undefined,  inevi- 
table, which  is  everywhere,  and  in  the  shadow  of 
everything,  an  omnipotence  of  misfortune  appear- 
ing dimly  in  the  black  of  a  judge's  robe  between 
the  constable  and  the  executioner,  with  the  hands 
of  the  police  and  the  arms  of  the  guillotine!  She 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

who  had  all  the  instincts  of  these  terrors  of  the 
people,  she  who  used  often  to  repeat  that  she 
would  rather  die  than  appear  in  court,  she  could  see 
herself  seated  on  a  bench  with  gendarmes  on  each 
side  of  her!  in  a  court,  in  the  midst  of  all  that  great 
unknown  of  the  law  which  her  ignorance  made  a 
terror  to  her.  Throughout  the  week  her  ears 
could  hear  footsteps  on  the  staircase  coming  to 
arrest  her! 

The  shock  was  too  great  for  nerves  so  diseased 
as  hers.  The  moral  strain  of  that  week  of  anguish 
cast  her,  and  surrendered  her  to  a  thought  which 
hitherto  had  been  continually  fluttering  about 
her  —  the  thought  of  suicide.  With  her  head 
between  her  hands,  she  began  to  listen  to  what 
spoke  to  her  of  deliverance.  She  lent  her  ear  to 
the  sweet  sound  of  death,  which  is  heard  behind 
life  like  the  distant  fall  of  mighty  waters  de- 
scending and  disappearing  into  vacancy.  The 
temptations  which  speak  to  discouragement  of  all 
that  kills  with  such  quickness  and  facility,  of  all 
that  takes  away  suffering  with  its  hand,  solicited 
her,  and  pursued  her.  Her  gaze  rested  and  lingered 
upon  all  those  things  around  her  which  might  be 
a  cure  for  life.  She  made  them  familiar  to  her 
fingers,  her  lips.  She  touched  them,  handled 
them,  brought  them  close  to  her.  She  sought 
in  them  a  trial  of  her  courage,  and  a  foretaste  of  her 
death. 

She  would  remain  for  hours  at  her  kitchen 
£249  3 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

window,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  pavement  of 
the  courtyard  five  stories  below,  pavement  which 
she  knew,  which  she  would  have  recognized! 
As  the  light  faded  she  would  lean  farther  out, 
bending  her  whole  person  over  the  badly  fastened 
windowbar,  ever  hoping  that  this  bar  might  give 
way  with  her,  praying  for  death  without  the 
necessity  of  that  desperate  spring  into  space  for 
which  she  did  not  feel  that  she  had  the  strength  — 

"Why,  you  will  fall!'*  said  mademoiselle  to  her 
one  day,  holding  her  back  by  the  petticoat,  with 
a  first,  frightened  impulse.  "  What  are  you  looking 
at  in  the  courtyard? " 

"I?     Nothing  —  the  pavement." 

"Come  now,  are  you  mad?  You  gave  me  a 
fright!" 

"Oh!  people  don't  fall  in  that  way,"  said  Ger- 
minie,  in  a  strange  tone.  "It  takes  a  real  wish 
to  make  you  fall!" 


£2503 


LI 


GERMINIE   had   not   been   able   to   induce 
Gautruche,  who  was  pursued  by  a  former 
mistress,  to  give  her  the  key  of  his  room. 
When  he  had  not  returned,  she  was  obliged  to 
wait  below,  outside,  in  the  street  and  the  night  and 
the  winter. 

She  would  at  first  walk  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  house.  She  used  to  pass  backwards  and 
forwards,  taking  twenty  steps  and  returning. 
Then,  as  though  she  were  lengthening  out  her 
expectation,  she  would  take  a  longer  turn,  and 
continually  increasing  the  distance,  would  at  last 
reach  the  two  extremities  of  the  boulevard.  She 
often  walked  for  hours  in  this  way,  ashamed  and 
muddy,  beneath  the  gloomy  sky,  in  the  suspicious 
horrors  of  an  avenue  near  the  city  gate  and  of  the 
shadow  of  everything.  She  went  along  by  the  red 
houses  of  the  wine-sellers,  the  bare  arbors,  the 
public-house  trellises  supported  by  dead  trees 
such  as  are  to  be  seen  in  bears'  pits,  the  low,  flat 
hovels  pierced  at  random  with  blindless  windows, 
the  cap  manufactories  where  shirts  are  sold,  the 
sinister  houses  in  which  there  are  lodgings  by  the 
night.  She  passed  in  front  of  shops,  shut  up, 

£251:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

sealed,  dismal  with  failures,  of  accursed  wall- 
sections,  of  dark  iron-barred  passages  seeming  to 
lead  to  those  abodes  of  murder  the  plan  of  which  is 
handed  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  in  the  assize 
court. 

As  she  proceeded  there  came  funereal  little 
gardens,  crooked  buildings,  mean  structures,  large 
mouldy  entrances,  palings  enclosing  in  a  plot  of 
waste  ground  the  disquieting  whiteness  of  stones 
as  seen  at  night,  corners  of  buildings  with  sal- 
petrous  stinks,  walls  fouled  with  shameful  plac- 
ards and  fragments  of  torn  notices  in  which  the 
rotting  advertisements  were  like  a  leprosy.  From 
time  to  time,  at  an  abrupt  turning,  a  lane  would 
appear  which  seemed  to  sink  after  a  few  steps  into 
a  hole,  and  from  which  there  issued  the  breath 
of  a  cellar;  blind  alleys  cast  the  dark  rigidity  of 
a  great  wall  upon  the  blue  of  the  sky;  streets 
ascended  dimly,  where  at  distant  intervals  the 
light  of  the  street-lamps  oozed  out  upon  the 
bleak  plaster  of  the  houses. 

Germinie  still  walked  on.     She  trod  the  whole 
of  that  space  wherein  the  debauched  grow  drunk 
on  their  Mondays,  and  find  their  loves,  between 
a  hospital,  a  slaughter-house,  and  a  cemetery  :- 
Lariboisiere,  the  Abattoir,  and  Montmartre. 

Those  who  passed  that  way,  the  workman 
coming  whistling  from  Paris,  the  workwoman 
returning  after  her  day's  toil  with  her  hands  under 
her  armpits  to  keep  herself  warm,  the  prostitute 

1*521 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

wandering  about  in  a  black  bonnet  —  crossed 
her  path  and  looked  at  her.  Strangers  seemed  to 
be  recognizing  her;  the  light  made  her  ashamed- 
She  would  escape  to  the  other  side  of  the  boule- 
vard, and  follow  the  dark  and  deserted  road  be- 
side the  boundary  wall;  but  she  was  soon  driven 
away  again  by  horrible  shadows  of  men  and 
brutally  amorous  hands. 

She  would  fain  have  gone  away;  she  abused 
herself  inwardly;  she  called  herself  coward  and 
wretch;  she  swore  to  herself  that  this  should  be 
the  last  turn,  that  she  would  go  again  as  far  as 
that  tree,  and  that  then  there  should  be  no  more 
of  it,  that  if  he  had  not  then  come  in  there  should 
be  an  end  of  it  and  she  would  go  away.  And  she 
did  not  go  away;  she  still  walked  and  still  waited, 
devoured  by  a  longing  and  passion  to  see  him  that 
increased  in  proportion  as  he  delayed. 

At  last  as  the  hours  went  by,  and  the  boulevard 
emptied  of  passengers,  Germinie,  exhausted,  worn 
out  with  fatigue,  would  approach  the  houses.  She 
dragged  herself  from  shop  to  shop,  went  mechani- 
cally where  there  was  still  gas  burning,  and  stood 
stupidly  before  the  flaming  windows.  She  dazed 
her  eyes,  and  strove  to  kill  her  impatience  by 
deadening  it.  She  was  arrested  for  a  long  time  by 
what  is  to  be  seen  through  the  succeeding  window- 
panes  of  the  wine-sellers.  The  kitchen  utensils, 
the  punch-bowls  standing  in  tiers  between  empty 
bottles  from  which  issue  sprigs  of  laurel,  the  glass- 

£2533 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

cases  in  which  the  colors  of  the  liquors  are 
brilliantly  displayed,  a  half-pint  measure  full  of 
little  plated  spoons.  She  would  spell  over  the  old 
advertisements  of  lottery-drawings  placarded  at 
the  back  of  a  wine-shop,  the  announcements  of 
brandied  coffee,  the  inscriptions  in  yellow  letters 
of:  "New  Wine,  genuine,  70  centimes."  She 
would  gaze  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  a  back  room 
in  which  there  were  a  man  in  a  blouse  seated  on  a 
stool  before  a  table,  a  stove  pipe,  and  a  slate  and 
two  black  trays  on  the  wall.  Her  fixed  and  vacant 
gaze  wandered  through  a  reddish  mist  to  blurred 
silhouettes  of  cobblers  leaning  over  their  benches. 
It  fell  and  became  absorbed  on  a  counter  that 
was  being  washed,  on  a  pair  of  hands  counting 
the  pence  that  the  day  had  brought  in,  on  a  funnel 
that  was  being  scoured,  on  a  water-can  that  was 
being  rubbed  with  sandstone.  She  had  ceased  to 
think.  She  stood  there,  riveted  and  growing  weak, 
feeling  her  heart  giving  way  with  the  fatigue  of 
being  on  her  feet,  seeing  everything  in  a  sort  of 
swoon,  hearing  as  in  a  humming  noise  the  mud- 
splashed  cabs  rolling  along  the  soft  boulevard, 
ready  to  fall  and  at  times  obliged  to  prop  herself 
with  her  shoulder  againt  the  wall. 

In  the  state  of  strain  and  sickness  in  which  she 
found  herself,  in  that  semi-hallucination  of  gid- 
diness which  rendered  her  so  fearful  of  crossing 
the  Seine  and  which  made  her  cling  to  the  balus- 
trades of  the  bridges,  it  would  happen  that  on 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

certain  rainy  evenings  these  weaknesses  which 
she  experienced  on  the  outer  boulevard  assumed 
the  terrors  of  a  nightmare.  When  the  flames  of  the 
street-lamps,  flickering  in  a  watery  vapor,  cast 
lengthening  and  wavering  reflections  upon  the 
wet  ground  as  on  the  mirror-like  surface  of  a 
river;  when  the  pavement,  the  footpaths,  the 
earth  seemed  to  be  disappearing  and  softening 
beneath  the  rain,  and  nothing  solid  appeared  to 
be  left  in  the  drenching  night,  the  poor  wretch, 
almost  mad  from  fatigue,  thought  that  she  could 
see  a  deluge  swelling  in  the  gutter.  A  mirage  of 
terror  suddenly  showed  her  water  all  round  her, 
water  advancing  and  drawing  near  from  every 
direction.  She  shut  her  eyes,  no  longer  daring 
to  stir  and  dreading  to  feel  her  feet  slip  from  under 
her,  and  beginning  to  weep,  continued  weeping 
until  some  one  passed  by  and  was  willing  to  lend 
her  an  arm  as  far  as  the  Hotel  of  the  Little  Blue 
Hand. 


£255:1 


LII 


THEN  she  ascended  the  staircase;   it  was  her 
last  refuge.    She  fled  there  from  rain,  snow, 
cold,  fear,  despair,  fatigue.     She  ascended 
and  sat  down  on  a  step  against  Gautruche's  closed 
door,  drawing  her  shawl  and  petticoat  closely  in 
order  to  allow  a  passage  to  those  going  and  com- 
ing along  this  steep  ladder,  gathering  up  her  per- 
son and  shrinking  into  a  corner  to  lessen  the  room 
occupied  by  her  shame  on  the  narrow  landing. 

From  the  opened  doors  issued  and  spread  upon 
the  staircase  the  odor  of  the  airless  rooms,  and  of 
the  families  massed  together  in  a  single  apart- 
ment, the  exhalations  from  unhealthy  occupations, 
the  greasy,  animalized  fumes  from  meat-warmers 
heated  on  the  landing,  a  stench  of  rags,  the  dank 
unsavoriness  of  linen  drying  on  strings.  The 
broken-paned  window  which  Germinie  had  behind 
her  transmitted  to  her  the  fetidity  of  a  sink  into 
which  the  whole  house  emptied  its  filth  and  liquid 
refuse.  Every  moment  her  heart  heaved  at  a  gust 
of  infectiousness,  and  she  was  obliged  to  take  from 
her  pocket  a  bottle  of  carmelite  water  which  she 
always  had  about  her,  and  drink  a  mouthful  to 
keep  herself  from  feeling  ill. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

But  the  staircase  also  had  its  passers-by: 
honest  wives  of  workingmen  coming  up  with  a 
bushel  of  charcoal  or  with  the  wine  for  supper. 
They  pushed  her  with  their  feet,  and  the  whole 
time  that  they  took  to  ascend  Germinie  could  feel 
their  looks  of  contempt  winding  round  the  well 
of  the  staircase  and  crushing  her  from  a  greater 
height  at  every  story.  Children,  little  girls  with 
kerchiefs  on  their  heads  passing  along  the  dark 
staircase  with  the  light  of  a  flower,  little  girls 
causing  her  to  see  her  little  daughter  again,  alive 
and  grown,  as  she  appeared  to  her  in  dreams  - 
she  used  to  watch  them  stop  and  look  at  her  with 
widely  opened  eyes  that  shrank  from  her; 
then  they  would  run  away  and  pant  upstairs,  and 
when  at  the  very  top  would  lean  over  the  banister 
and  fling  impure  abuse  at  her,  revilings  such  as 
came  from  children  of  the  people. 

Insults,  spit  out  from  those  lips  of  roses,  fell  upon 
Germinie  more  painfully  than  anything  else.  She 
would  half  raise  herself  for  a  moment;  then,  de- 
jected and  self-abandoned,  would  sink  back,  and, 
drawing  her  plaid  over  her  head  so  as  to  hide  and 
bury  herself  in  it,  would  remain  like  one  dead, 
crouched,  inert,  insensible,  coiled  up  on  her 
shadow  like  a  bundle  thrown  down  for  every- 
body to  walk  on,  her  senses  gone  and  no  life  left 
throughout  her  body  save  for  a  sound  of  foot- 
steps for  whose  coming  she  listened  —  but  which 
never  came. 

£2573 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

At  last,  after  hours  had  elapsed,  hours  which 
she  could  not  number,  she  seemed  to  hear  the 
stumbling  of  footsteps  in  the  street;  then  a  thick 
voice  stuttering  up  the  stairs: 

"Rascal!  —  rascal  of  wineseller!  shold  me  wine 
-makes  fler  drunk!" 

It  was  he. 

And  the  same  scene  was  repeated  nearly  every 
day. 

"Ah!  you're  there,  Germinie,"  he  would  say  on 
recognizing    her.      "Tell    you    what    it   is --I'm 
going  to  tell  you  —  we  were  a  bit  drowned  - 
and  putting  the  key  into  the  lock  -     "I'm  going 
to  tell  you,  'tis  not  my  fault." 

He  went  in,  kicked  away  a  turtledove  with 
clipped  wings  that  was  hopping  lamely  about,  and 
shut  the  door. 

"D'ye  see?  'Twasn't  me.  It  was  Paillon  — 
you  know  Paillon?  The  little  stout  chap  who's 
as  fat  as  a  madman's  dog.  Well!  'twas  his  doing, 
it  was,  on  my  honor.  He  would  stand  me  a  six- 
teen-sou  bottle.  He  offered  me  civility,  and  I 
offered  him  politeness  in  return.  Then,  naturally, 
we  put  a  little  comfort  into  our  coffee  —  over  and 
over  again?  By  and  by  we  fell  out  --  there  was  the 
devil's  own  row  —  And  so  that  rascal  of  a  publican 
chucked  us  out  of  doors  like  lobster  shells!" 

During  the  explanation,  Germinie  had  lighted 
the  candle  standing  in  a  brass  candlestick.  The 
unsteady  light  showed  the  dirty  papering  of  the 

£258:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

room,  covered  with  caricatures  from  the  "Chari- 
vari," which  had  been  torn  out  of  the  journal  and 
pasted  on  the  wall. 

"You're  a  love,"  Gautruche  would  say  to  her 
as  he  saw  her  place  a  cold  chicken  and  three 
bottles  of  wine  on  the  table.  "  For  you  must  know 
some  wretched  soup  is  all  that  I've  got  in  my 
stomach.  Ah,  it  would  have  taken  a  proper  fenc- 
ing-master to  put  out  that  fellow's  eyes." 

And  he  began  to  eat.  Germinie,  with  both 
elbows  on  the  table,  drank  and  looked  at  him,  and 
her  look  grew  dark. 

"Good!  there's  an  end  of  those  chaps!"  said 
Gautruche  at  length,  draining  the  bottles  one  by 
one.  "Bye!  bye!  children!" 

And  between  these  two  beings  there  were  love- 
passages,  terrible,  desperate,  funereal,  wild  frenzies 
and  gratifications,  furious  indulgences,  caresses 
possessing  the  brutality  and  wrath  of  wine,  kisses 
that  seemed  to  seek  for  the  blood  beneath  the  skin 
like  a  wild  beast's  tongue,  prostrations  that  en- 
gulfed them  and  left  them  but  the  corpses  of  their 
bodies. 

To  this  debauchery  Germinie  brought  an  ele- 
ment of  madness,  of  delirium,  of  desperation,  a 
sort  of  supreme  frenzy.  Her  inflamed  senses 
turned  upon  themselves,  and  passing  beyond  the 
appetites  of  their  nature,  were  driven  to  the  point 

£2593 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

of  suffering.  Satiety  wore  them  out  without 
destroying  them;  and,  exceeding  excess,  they 
were  forced  into  anguish.  In  the  unhappy  crea- 
ture's paroxysm  of  excitement,  her  head,  her 
nerves,  the  imaginings  of  her  raging  body,  no 
longer  sought  even  for  pleasure  in  pleasure,  but 
for  something  beyond  it,  more  harsh,  more  poign- 
ant, more  severe  —  for  pain  in  voluptuousness. 
And  momentarily  the  word  "death"  escaped  from 
her  compressed  lips,  as  though  she  were  invoking 
it  in  a  whisper,  and  seeking  to  embrace  it  in  the 
agonies  of  love! 

Sometimes  at  night,  rising  up  suddenly  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  she  set  her  naked  feet  upon  the 
coldness  of  the  floor  and  remained  there,  wild, 
listening  to  the  breathing  of  a  sleeping  room.  And 
gradually  all  that  was  about  her,  the  darkness  of 
the  hour,  seemed  to  enwrap  her.  She  appeared  to 
herself  to  be  falling  and  rolling  into  the  uncon- 
sciousness and  blindness  of  the  night.  The  will- 
power of  her  thoughts  disappeared;  all  sorts  of 
dark  things,  having  as  it  were  beings  and  voices, 
beat  against  her  temples.  The  sombre  tempta- 
tions, which  dimly  display  crime  and  madness, 
caused  a  red  light  —  the  lightning-flash  of  a  murder 
-  to  pass  close  before  her  eyes ;  and  at  her  back 
there  were  hands  pushing  her  from  behind  towards 
the  table  on  which  the  knives  lay.  She  would  close 
her  eyes,  move  a  foot;  then  in  fear,  hold  herself 
back  by  the  sheets;  and  finally,  turning  round, 

£260;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

would  fall  back  into  the  bed,  and  link  her  sleep 
once  more  to  the  sleep  of  the  man  whom  she  had 
been  wishing  to  assassinate;  why?  —  she  did  not 
know;  for  nothing  —  for  the  sake  of  killing! 

And  thus  until  day  the  rage  and  struggle  of  these 
mortal  loves  strove  still  in  the  meanly-furnished 
room  —  while  the  poor  lame  and  limping  dove, 
the  infirm  bird  of  Venus,  nestled  in  an  old  shoe 
belonging  to  Gautruche,  and  waking  from  time  to 
time  at  the  noise,  uttered  a  startled  coo. 


LIII 

GAUTRUCHE  had  at  this  time  something  of 
a  distaste  for  drinking.  He  had  just  felt 
the  first  attack  of  the  liver  complaint,  which 
had  long  been  lurking  in  his  fired  and  alcoholized 
blood  under  the  brick-red  color  of  his  cheek-bones. 
The  frightful  pains  which  had  gnawed  his  side 
and  griped  the  pit  of  his  stomach  for  a  week  had 
brought  him  to  reflect.  With  resolutions  of  wisdom 
there  had  come  to  him  almost  sentimental  notions 
about  the  future.  He  had  told  himself  that  he 
must  put  a  little  more  water  into  his  life  if  he 
wished  to  die  in  an  old  skin. 

While  he  turned  and  twisted  himself  in  his  bed, 
with  his  knees  drawn  up  in  order  to  diminish  the 
pain,  he  had  surveyed  his  hovel  —  the  four  walls 
within  which  he  spent  his  nights,  into  which  with- 
out a  candle  sometimes  he  brought  back  his 
drunkenness  at  evening,  and  from  which  he  es- 
caped in  the  morning  at  daybreak;  and  he  had 
thought  of  making  himself  a  home.  He  had 
thought  of  a  room  in  which  he  should  have  a 
woman  —  a  woman  who  would  make  him  a  good 
stew,  would  nurse  him  if  he  were  ill,  would  mend 
his  things,  would  prevent  him  from  beginning  a 

C262H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

new  score  at  the  wine-shop,  a  woman,  in  short,  who 
would  have  all  the  qualities  of  a  good  housekeeper, 
and  who  would,  furthermore,  be  no  fool,  who 
would  understand  him  and  laugh  with  him.  This 
woman  was  already  found  —  she  was  Germinie. 
She  must  surely  have  a  little  hoard,  a  few  sous 
laid  by  during  the  time  that  she  had  been  a  servant 
to  her  old  mademoiselle,  and  with  his  own  earnings 
they  would  live  comfortably  and  "be  snug."  He 
had  no  doubt  about  her  assent;  he  was  sure  before- 
hand that  she  would  accept  the  proposal.  More- 
over, her  scruples,  if  she  had  any,  would  not  with- 
stand the  proposal  of  a  marriage  to  terminate  their 
liaison,  with  which  he  intended  to  dazzle  her. 

One  Monday  she  had  just  come  to  see  him. 

"Look  here,  Germinie,"  Gautruche  began, 
"what  do  you  say  to  this,  eh?  A  good  room  — 
not  like  this  box  of  a  place,  but  a  proper  one  with 
a  little  one  off  it  —  at  Montmartre  in  the  Rue  de 
I'Empereur,  with  two  windows  and  a  view  that 
an  Englishman  would  give  you  five  thousand  francs 
to  take  away  with  him !  —  something  smart  and 
cheerful,  in  fact,  that  a  fellow  might  spend  a  whole 
day  in  without  being  worried,  because,  d'ye  know, 
I'm  beginning  to  have  enough  of  moving  about 
only  to  change  the  fleas.  And  then,  that's  not  all. 
I'm  sick  of  hanging  out  in  furnished  lodgings  all 
alone.  Friends  are  no  company  —  they  fall  into 
your  glass  like  flies  when  you  pay,  and  there's  an 
end  of  them.  First  of  all,  I  don't  intend  to  drink 

£263:1 


GERM1NIE    LACERTEUX 

any  more,  I  really  don't,  as  you'll  see.  I  don't 
want  to  kill  myself,  you  know,  with  that  sort  of 
life.  Nothing  of  that  sort.  Mind  you,  a  man  has 
no  right  to  muddle  his  brains.  I've  been  feeling 
these  times  as  if  I'd  swallowed  corkscrews,  and  I 
don't  want  to  step  straight  into  the  grave  just  yet. 
So  this  was  the  idea  that  ran  through  me  like  the 
threading  of  a  needle: 

"I'll  make  a  proposal  to  Germinie.  I'll  treat 
myself  to  a  little  furniture,  and  you've  got  what's 
in  your  room.  You  know  there's  not  much  laziness 
about  me;  my  hands  are  not  too  soft  to  work. 
Then  we  might  look  to  be  not  always  working  for 
other  people,  but  to  set  up  a  little  shop  of  our  own. 
If  you've  anything  laid  by,  it  would  help.  We'd 
settle  down  nicely  together,  ready  to  have  our- 
selves put  to  rights  some  day  before  the  mayor. 
That's  not  so  bad,  eh,  my  lass,  is  it?  And  she'll 
leave  her  old  woman,  straight  away,  won't  she, 
for  her  old  darling  of  a  Gautruche?" 

Germinie,  who  had  been  listening  to  Gautruche 
with  her  head  advanced  towards  him  and  her  chin 
leaning  on  her  hand,  threw  herself  back  with  a 
burst  of  strident  laughter. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  you  thought  that!  —  You  actually 
tell  me  that!  You  thought  that  I'd  leave  her!- 
her!  Mademoiselle!  You  really  thought  so?  You 
are  a  fool,  do  you  know  that?  Why,  you  might 
have  hundreds  and  thousands,  you  might  have 
pocketfuls  of  gold  —  pocketfuls,  do  you  hear?  — 

£264:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

and  I  wouldn't  do  it.  It's  a  perfect  farce.  Made- 
moiselle! But  you  don't  know  —  I've  never  told 
you.  Ah!  it  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  have  her  die 
and  these  hands  not  there  to  close  her  eyes!  That 
would  be  a  pretty  sight!  And  you  really  thought 
that?" 

"Confound  it!  I  fancied  —  being  with  me  the 
way  you  were  —  I  thought  you  cared  more  about 
me  than  that  —  in  fact,  that  you  loved  me," 
said  the  painter,  baffled  by  the  terrible,  hissing 
irony  of  Germinie's  words. 

"Ah!  so  you  thought  that  too  —  that  I  loved 
you?"  and  as  though  suddenly  plucking  remorse, 
and  the  wound  caused  by  her  love,  from  the  bottom 
of  her  heart,  she  went  on :  —  "  Well,  yes,  I  do  love 
you,  I  love  you  just  as  much  as  you  love  me,  and 
no  more.  I  love  you  like  something  that's  at 
hand,  and  that's  made  use  of  because  it's  there. 
I'm  accustomed  to  you,  as  I  might  be  to  an  old 
dress  that  was  always  being  put  on.  That's  the 
way  I  love  you.  How  would  you  have  me  care 
about  you?  You  or  another?  I'd  like  to  know 
what  difference  that  makes  to  me?  For,  after  all, 
what  have  you  been  more  than  another  to  me? 
Well,  yes,  you  took  me,  but  what  then?  Is  that 
enough  to  make  me  love  you?  Why,  what  have 
you  done  to  make  me  fond  of  you,  you  just  tell  me 
that?  Did  you  ever  sacrifice  a  glass  of  wine  for 
me?  Have  you  as  much  as  had  pity  on  me  when 
I  was  running  about  in  the  mud  and  snow  at  the 

£265  3 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

risk  of  my  life?  Yes,  and  all  that  was  said  to  me, 
all  that  was  flung  in  my  teeth,  till  my  blood  was 
in  a  boil  from  one  end  to  another,  all  the  insults 
that  I've  swallowed  when  waiting  for  you  - 
precious  little  you  were  affected  by  them.  There! 
I've  been  wanting  this  long  time  to  tell  you  all  this 
-  my  heart  has  been  full  with  it.  Why,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  cruel  smile,  "do  you  think  you've 
made  me  crazy  with  your  appearance,  with  the 
hair  that  you've  lost,  and  that  head  of  yours? 
Not  likely!  I  took  you -- I'd  have  taken  any 
one  —  I  was  at  one  of  those  times  when  I  must 
have  somebody,  when  I  know  nothing  and  see 
nothing,  and  it's  not  myself  that  wills.  I  took 
you  because  it  was  hot  —  there!" 

She  paused  for  a  moment. 

"Go  on,"  said  Gautruche,  "pitch  into  me  all 
round.  Make  yourself  comfortable  while  you're 
about  it." 

"Eh?"  Germinie  resumed,  "you  fancied  I  was 
going  to  be  delighted  to  settle  down  with  you? 
You  said  to  yourself:  'That  good  fool!  How 
pleased  she'll  be.  And  then  I'll  only  have  to 
promise  to  marry  her  and  she'll  leave  her  place 
there  and  then.  She'll  give  up  her  mistress.'  Just 
imagine!  Mademoiselle!  Mademoiselle,  who  had 
no  one  but  me.  Ah!  you  know  nothing  about  it, 
and  you  wouldn't  understand  it  either.  Made- 
moiselle, who  is  everything  to  me!  Why,  since 
my  mother,  I've  had  no  one  but  her  to  be  kind  to 

C266I1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

me.  Except  her,  who  ever  said  to  me  when  I  was 
sad,  'Are  you  sad?'  or  when  I  was  ill,  'Are  you 
ill?'  No  one.  There  was  nothing  and  nobody 
but  her  to  take  care  of  me,  or  trouble  about 
me. 

;'You  talk  about  loving  on  account  of  what 
there's  between  us.  Why,  there's  somebody  - 
mademoiselle- — who  did  love  me,  ay,  loved  me! 
And  it's  killing  me,  I  can  tell  you,  that  I've  be- 
come a  wretch  such  as  I  am,  a  —  She  uttered 
the  word.  "And  to  deceive  her,  to  rob  her  of  her 
affection,  to  go  on  allowing  her  to  love  me  like  her 
own  daughter,  --  me!  me!  Ah,  if  ever  she  heard 
anything  —  but  never  mind,  it  wouldn't  be  for 
long.  There's  someone  who'd  take  a  fine  jump 
from  the  fifth  floor,  as  sure  as  God's  my  master!  But 
you  may  make  sure  of  this  —  you  are  not  my  heart, 
you  are  not  my  life,  you  are  only  my  pleasure. 
But  I  had  a  man  once.  Ah,  didn't  I  just  love  him! 
I  might  have  been  cut  to  pieces  for  his  sake  and 
I'd  have  said  nothing.  Ay,  he  was  the  man  of  my 
misfortune.  Well,  when  I  was  most  taken  with 
him,  when  I  never  breathed  but  when  he  wished, 
when  I  was  mad,  and  if  he'd  trodden  on  my  body 
I'd  have  let  him  do  it,  if  at  that  time  mademoiselle 
had  been  ill  and  had  signed  to  me  with  her  little 
finger,  I'd  have  come  back  —  yes,  for  her  sake, 
I'd  have  left  him!  I  tell  you,  I'd  have  left  him!" 

"Well,  then,  if  that's  so,  my  dear,  and  you're 
so  fond  of  your  old  woman,  I  have  only  one  piece 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

of  advice  to  give  you:  you  oughtn't  to  leave  your 

good  lady  any  more,  d'ye  see?" 

"This  is  my  dismissal?"  said  Germinie,  rising. 

"Faith!  something  like  it." 

"Well,  good-bye.     I've  no  objection." 

And  going  straight  to  the  door,  she  went  out 

without  another  word. 


LIV 


AFTER  this  rupture,  Germinie  fell,  as  she  was 
bound  to  fall,  below  shame,  below  nature 
itself.  Step  by  step,  the  miserable,  burn- 
ing creature  sank  to  the  street.  She  picked  up  the 
loves  that  are  worn  out  in  a  night,  such  as  pass, 
such  as  are  met  with,  such  as  are  revealed  to  a 
wandering  woman  by  the  chance  of  the  pavement. 
She  no  longer  needed  to  take  time  for  her  desire: 
her  caprice  was  frenzied  and  sudden,  kindled  at 
the  instant.  Hungry  for  the  first  comer,  she 
scarcely  looked  at  him,  and  would  have  been 
unable  to  recognize  him  afterwards.  Beauty,  youth, 
that  appearance  in  a  lover  wherein  love  of  the  most 
degraded  women  seek  a  kind  of  base  ideal,  all  this 
had  ceased  to  tempt  or  to  move  her.  Among  all 
men,  her  eyes  could  see  only  man;  the  individual 
was  indifferent  to  her.  The  last  remaining  mod- 
esty and  the  last  human  sentiment  in  debauchery, 
preference,  choice,  and  even  —  what  is  left  to 
prostitutes  to  serve  as  conscience  and  personality 
—  disgust  itself  was  lost  in  her! 

And  she  passed  along  the  streets,  roaming 
through  the  night,  with  the  suspicious,  furtive 
fashion  of  animals  searching  the  shade  with  seek- 

£269:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ing  appetite.  As  though  an  outcast  from  her  sex, 
she  herself  attacked,  she  solicited  brutality,  she  took 
advantage  of  intoxication,  and  the  yielding  was  to 
her.  She  walked  along,  smelling  around  her,  go- 
ing to  the  ambushed  impurity  of  stretches  of 
waste  ground,  to  the  opportunities  of  evening  and 
solitude,  to  the  hands  that  were  waiting  to  pounce 
upon  a  shawl.  The  midnight  passers  could  see 
her  by  the  light  of  the  street  lamp,  sinister  and 
quivering,  gliding  and  as  it  were  creeping  along, 
stooped,  unobtrusive,  her  shoulders  bent,  hugging 
the  darkness,  with  such  a  look  of  insanity  and 
sickness,  such  an  infinite  wildness  as  will  cause 
the  heart  of  the  thinker  and  the  thought  of  the 
physician  to  be  occupied  with  abysses  of  sadness. 


£2703 


LV 


ONE  evening  when  she  was  roaming  along 
the  Rue  du  Rocher,  passing  in  front  of  a 
wine-shop   at   the   corner   of  the    Rue   de 
Laborde,  she  saw  the  back  of  a  man  who  was 
drinking  at  the  counter:    it  was  Jupillon. 

She  stopped  short,  turned  towards  the  street, 
and  leaning  her  back  against  the  grating  of  the 
wine-shop,  set  herself  to  wait.  With  her  shoulders 
against  the  bars,  she  had  the  light  of  the  shop 
behind  her,  and  she  stood  motionless,  one  hand 
holding  up  her  skirt  in  front  and  the  other  hang- 
ing at  the  end  of  her  idle  arm.  She  was  like  a 
statue  of  shadow  seated  on  a  boundary  stone.  In 
her  attitude  there  was  terrible  resolution  and  what 
seemed  like  eternal  patience  for  waiting  there 
for  ever.  Passers-by,  vehicles,  street,  she  saw  them 
all  dimly  and  distantly.  A  white  horse,  the  trace- 
horse  of  the  omnibus  used  in  the  ascent  of  the 
street,  was  in  front  of  her,  motionless,  wearied, 
sleeping  where  it  stood  with  its  head  and  two 
forelegs  in  the  full  light  from  the  doorway;  but 
she  did  not  see  it.  It  was  drizzling.  The  weather 
was  such  as  it  sometimes  is  in  Paris,  dirty  and 
rotten,  the  falling  water  seeming  muddy  even  be- 

1:270 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

fore  it  has  fallen.  The  gutter  was  rising  over  her 
feet.  She  remained  thus  for  half  an  hour,  a  mourn- 
ful sight,  moveless,  menacing  and  desperate,  dark 
and  featureless  like  a  statue  of  Fate  placed  by 
Night  at  a  dram-seller's  door. 

At  last  Jupillon  came  out.  She  stood  up  in 
front  of  him  with  folded  arms. 

"My  money?"  she  said  to  him.     She  had  the 
face  of  a  woman  with  whom  there  is  no  longer 
conscience,  God,  police,  assize  court,  scaffold  - 
anything ! 

Jupillon  felt  his  nonsense  sticking  in  his  throat. 

"Your  money?"  he  said.  "Your  money  isn't 
lost.  But  you  must  give  me  time;  just  now,  work 
is  not  doing  well.  My  shop  came  to  an  end  long 
ago,  as  you  know.  But  I  promise  to  repay  you 
in  three  months.  And  how  are  you  getting  on?" 

"You  rascal !  Ah !  I've  got  you !  So  you  wanted 
to  be  off.  It's  you  that's  been  my  curse,  that's 
made  me  what  I  am,  robber!  thief!  pickpocket! 
It  was  you  - 

Germinie  hurled  this  into  his  face,  pushing 
against  him,  facing  him,  pressing  her  bosom 
against  his.  She  seemed  to  be  giving  herself  to 
the  blows  that  she  called  for  and  challenged;  and, 
stretching  quite  over  to  him,  she  cried: 

"Beat  me.  Tell  me  what  I  must  say  to  you  to 
make  you  beat  me?" 

She  could  no  longer  think.  She  did  not  know 
what  she  wanted;  she  had  only  a  kind  of  desire 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

to  be  struck.  There  had  come  to  her  an  instinc- 
tive, irrational  longing  to  be  brutally  ill-used,  to 
be  bruised,  to  suffer  in  her  flesh,  to  feel  a  shock, 
a  concussion,  a  pain  that  might  silence  what  was 
throbbing  in  her  head.  Blows  —  she  could  think 
of  nothing  else  to  put  an  end  to  it  all.  Then,  with 
the  clearness  of  a  hallucination,  she  could  see  all 
kinds  of  things  happening  after  the  blows  —  the 
arrival  of  the  police,  the  police-station,  the  com- 
missary; the  commissary  before  whom  she  could 
tell  everything,  her  story,  her  miseries,  what  this 
man  had  made  her  suffer,  what  he  had  cost  her! 
Her  heart  swelled  in  anticipation  at  the  thought 
of  emptying  itself  with  cries  and  tears  of  all  that 
made  it  ready  to  burst. 

"Beat  me!"  she  repeated,  still  walking  close 
after  Jupillon,  who  was  trying  to  get  away,  and 
was  throwing  caressing  words  to  her,  as  he  drew 
back,  just  as  we  do  to  an  animal  which  does  not 
recognize  us  and  which  wants  to  bite  us.  A  crowd 
began  to  gather  round  them. 

"Come,  now,  old  tippler,  let's  have  no  annoy- 
ance of  the  gentleman,"  said  a  policeman,  grasping 
Germinie  by  the  arm  and  roughly  turning  her 
round.  At  the  brutal  insult  of  the  policeman's 
hand,  Germinie's  knees  gave  way:  she  thought 
that  she  was  fainting.  Then  she  grew  frightened, 
and  began  to  run  down  the  middle  of  the  street. 


C2733 


LVI 


PASSION  has  insane  recurrences,  inexplicable 
returns.  That  accursed  love  which  Ger- 
minie  thought  had  been  killed  by  all  Jupil- 
lon's  wounds  and  blows  was  reviving.  She  was 
terrified  to  find  it  again  within  her  as  she  re- 
entered  the  house.  The  mere  sight  of  the  man,  a 
few  minutes  near  him,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
breathing  of  the  air  that  he  breathed,  had  been 
sufficient  to  turn  back  her  heart,  and  to  surrender 
her  wholly  to  the  past. 

In  spite  of  everything,  she  had  never  been  able 
wholly  to  tear  out  Jupillon  from  her  heart;  he 
had  remained  rooted  in  it.  He  was  her  first  love. 
She  belonged  to  him,  in  opposition  to  herself,  by 
all  the  weaknesses  of  memory,  all  the  cowardliness 
of  habit.  Between  them  there  were  all  the  bonds 
of  torture  which  chain  a  woman  for  ever  —  sacri- 
fice, suffering,  humiliation.  He  owned  her  for 
having  outraged  her  conscience,  trampled  upon 
her  illusions,  martyred  her  life.  She  was  his, 
eternally  his,  who  was  the  master  of  all  her  sorrows. 

And  this  shock,  this  scene  which  ought  to  have 
given  her  a  horror  of  ever  meeting  him,  rekindled 
within  her  a  frenzy  to  see  him  again.  All  her 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

passion  seized  upon  her  once  more.  The  thought 
of  Jupillon  filled  her  so  as  even  to  purify  her.  She 
checked  the  vagrancy  of  her  senses :  she  wished  to 
belong  to  nobody,  since  in  this  way  only  could  she 
still  belong  to  him. 

She  began  to  watch  him,  to  study  the  hours  of 
his  going  out,  the  streets  through  which  he 
passed,  the  places  to  which  he  went.  She  followed 
him  to  BatignoIIes,  to  his  new  lodgings,  walking 
behind  him,  happy  to  set  her  foot  where  his  had 
trod,  to  be  guided  by  his  route,  to  see  him  a  little, 
to  catch  a  gesture  that  he  made,  to  snatch  one  of 
his  glances.  That  was  all:  she  dared  not  speak 
to  him;  she  kept  at  a  distance  behind,  like  a  lost 
dog  that  is  pleased  at  not  being  repulsed  with  kicks 
from  the  heel. 

For  weeks,  she  made  herself  thus  the  shadow 
of  this  man,  a  humble  and  fearful  shadow,  shrink- 
ing back  and  returning  a  few  paces  when  she 
thought  that  she  was  seen;  then  drawing  near 
with  timid  steps,  and,  at  a  sign  of  impatience 
from  the  man,  stopping  again,  and  seeming  to  ask 
his  forgiveness. 

Sometimes  she  waited  for  him  at  the  door  of  a 
house  that  he  entered,  rejoined  him  when  he  came 
out,  and  accompanied  him  home  again,  always  at 
a  distance  and  without  speaking,  with  the  look 
of  a  beggar-woman  who  begs  for  leavings  and  gives 
thanks  for  what  she  is  allowed  to  pick  up.  Then 
she  used  to  listen  at  the  shutter  of  the  ground- 

112753 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

Hoor  apartment  in  which  he  lived,  to  find  out 
whether  he  was  alone,  whether  anybody  was  there. 
When  he  had  a  woman  on  his  arm,  she  was  ob- 
stinate in  the  pursuit  of  him,  in  spite  of  what  she 
might  suffer.  She  went  where  the  couple  went,  to 
the  very  end.  She  followed  them  into  public 
gardens  and  into  balls.  She  walked  in  their 
laughter  and  their  speech,  lacerated  at  seeing 
and  hearing  them,  yet  remaining  at  their  backs 
with  all  her  jealousies  sore  within  her. 


LVII 

IT  was  the  month  of  November.  For  three  or 
four  days  Germinie  had  not  met  Jupillon. 
She  came  to  spy  him  out,  to  look  for  him  near 
his  lodgings.  On  reaching  his  street  she  saw  a 
broad  streak  of  light  streaming  through  his  closed 
shutter;  she  approached  and  heard  bursts  of 
laughter,  the  clinking  of  glasses,  women,  then  a 
song,  a  voice,  a  woman,  one  whom  she  hated  with 
all  her  heart,  one  whom  she  would  fain  have  seen 
dead,  one  whose  death  she  had  so  often  looked  for 
in  the  lines  of  fate,  in  a  word,  his  cousin! 

She  pressed  against  the  shutter,  breathing  in 
what  they  said,  sunk  in  the  torture  of  hearing 
them,  starving  and  feeding  herself  upon  pain.  A 
cold,  wintry  rain  was  falling.  She  did  not  feel  it. 
All  her  senses  were  devoted  to  listening.  The 
voice  that  she  detested  seemed  at  times  to  grow 
weak,  and  be  smothered  by  kisses,  and  what  it 
was  singing  took  to  flight  as  though  stifled  by 
lips  laid  upon  a  song.  The  hours  went  by.  Ger- 
minie was  still  there.  She  never  thought  of  going 
away.  She  waited  without  knowing  what  she 
was  waiting  for.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  must 
continue  to  remain  there  until  the  end.  The  rain 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

was  falling  more  heavily.  Water  from  a  broken 
spout  above  her  was  beating  upon  her  shoulders. 
Big  drops  were  gliding  down  the  back  of  her  neck. 
An  icy  coldness  was  spreading  through  her  back. 
Her  dress  was  sweating  water  upon  the  pavement. 
She  did  not  perceive  it.  Nothing  was  left  to  her 
in  all  her  limbs  but  the  suffering  of  her  soul. 

Far  in  the  night  there  was  a  noise,  a  stirring, 
footsteps  coming  towards  the  door.  Germinie 
hastened  to  hide  herself  a  few  steps  off  in  the 
angle  of  a  wall,  and  she  saw  a  woman  led  away 
by  a  young  man.  As  she  looked  at  them  moving 
off,  she  felt  something  soft  and  warm  in  her  hand 
that  at  first  frightened  her:  it  was  a  dog  licking 
her,  a  big  dog  which  when  quite  small  she  had  held 
in  her  lap  many  an  evening  in  the  back-shop  at 
the  dairy. 

"Here,  Molossus!"  shouted  Jupillon's  impa- 
tient voice  two  or  three  times  into  the  shadow  of 
the  street. 

The  dog  barked,  ran  off,  turned  back  frisking, 
and  went  in  again.  The  door  closed.  The  voices 
and  songs  brought  Germinie  back  to  the  same 
spot  against  the  shutter,  and  the  rain  soaked  her 
and  she  allowed  it  to  soak  her  as  she  continued  to 
listen  until  the  morning,  until  daybreak,  until 
the  hour  when  some  bricklayers  going  to  their 
work  with  their  bread  under  their  arms,  burst 
out  laughing  at  the  sight  of  her. 

1:278: 


LVIII 

TWO  or  three  days  after  this  night  spent  in 
the  rain,  Germinie  had  a  face  rendered  fright- 
ful by  pain,  a  ghastly  colour  and  burning 
eyes.  She  said  nothing,  made  no  complaint,  and 
did  her  work  as  usual. 

"Here!  just  look  at  me,"  said  mademoiselle; 
and  drawing  her  abruptly  to  the  light:  "What 
is  this?"  she  went  on.  "You  look  as  if  you  had 
risen  from  the  grave?  Come,  you  are  ill?  Good 
gracious!  how  hot  your  hands  are." 

She  took  her  wrist,  and  threw  back  the  arm  a 
moment  after: 

"Why,  you  wretched  fool,  you  are  in  a  high  state 
of  fever.  And  you  are  keeping  it  all  to  yourself." 

"Why,  no,  mademoiselle,"  stammered  Ger- 
minie, "  I  think  it's  simply  a  bad  cold.  I  fell  asleep 
the  other  night  with  my  kitchen  window  open." 

"Oh,  as  for  you,"  returned  mademoiselle,  "you 
would  die  without  so  much  as  saying : '  Ah !  wait — J : 

And  putting  on  her  spectacles  and  wheeling  her 
easy-chair  up  to  a  little  table  beside  the  fire-place 
she  began  to  write  a  few  lines  in  her  big  hand- 
writing. 

"Here,"  she  said,  folding  up  the  letter,  "you 
£2793 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

will  be  kind  enough  to  give  this  to  your  friend 
Adele  to  have  it  taken  by  the  concierge.  And 
now,  to  bed  with  you!" 

But  Germinie  would  never  consent  to  go  to  bed. 
It  was  not  worth  while.  She  would  not  tire  her- 
self. She  would  remain  seated  the  whole  day. 
Besides,  the  worst  of  her  sickness  was  over;  she 
was  better  already.  And  then  with  her,  bed  meant 
death. 

The  doctor,  summoned  by  mademoiselle's  note, 
came  in  the  evening.  He  examined  Germinie,  and 
ordered  the  application  of  croton  oil.  The  dis- 
orders in  the  breast  were  such  that  he  could  as  yet 
say  nothing.  It  was  necessary  to  await  the  effect 
of  the  remedies. 

He  returned  after  a  few  days,  made  Germinie 
go  to  bed,  and  examined  her  for  a  long  time  with 
the  stethoscope. 

"It's  extraordinary,"  he  said  to  mademoiselle, 
after  he  had  come  downstairs  again,  "she  has  had 
pleurisy,  and  has  not  kept  her  bed  for  a  moment. 
Is  the  girl  made  of  iron?  What  energy  women 
have!  How  old  is  she?" 

"  Forty-one." 

"Forty-one?  Oh,  it's  impossible.  Are  you 
sure?  She  looks  fifty." 

"Oh,  for  that  matter,  she  looks  any  age.  What 
can  you  expect?  Never  in  health  —  always  ailing 
—  sorrow  —  worry,  and  a  disposition  that  is 
always  torturing  itself." 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"Forty-one!  it's  astonishing!"  repeated  the 
doctor. 

After  a  moment's  reflection  he  resumed: 

"Have  there  been  any  chest  affections  in  her 
family  to  your  knowledge?  Had  she  any  rela- 
tions who  died?" 

"She  lost  a  sister  from  pleurisy,  but  she  was 
older.  She  was  forty-eight,  I  think." 

The  doctor  had  become  grave. 

"After  all,  the  chest  is  becoming  clear,"  he  said 
in  a  reassuring  tone.  "But  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  she  should  have  rest.  And  then,  send 
her  to  me  once  a  week.  Let  her  come  to  see  me, 
and  let  her  choose  a  fine,  sunny  day." 


1:2813 


LIX 

IT  was  in  vain  that  mademoiselle  spoke,  en- 
treated, desired  scolded:  she  could  not  in- 
duce Germinie  to  leave  off  her  work  for  a  few 
days.  Germinie  would  not  even  hear  of  a  helper 
to  do  the  chief  part  of  her  work.  She  declared  to 
mademoiselle  that  it  was  impossible  and  useless, 
that  she  could  never  reconcile  herself  to  the  idea 
of  another  woman  approaching  her,  and  serving 
her  and  taking  care  of  her;  that  the  mere  thought 
of  it  in  her  bed  put  her  into  a  fever,  that  she  was 
not  dead  yet,  and  that  so  long  as  she  could  put 
one  foot  before  another  she  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  go  on  as  she  was  doing.  Her  tone  was  so  tender 
as  she  said  this,  her  eyes  were  so  beseeching,  and 
her  invalid's  voice  was  so  humble  and  impassioned 
in  its  request,  that  mademoiselle  had  not  courage 
enough  to  compel  her  to  have  an  assistant.  She 
only  treated  her  "as  a  wooden-headed  fool,"  who 
believed  in  common  with  all  country  folk  that  a 
person  is  dead  if  she  spends  a  few  days  in  bed. 
Bearing  up  with  an  appearance  of  improvement 
due  to  the  doctor's  energetic  medication,  Ger- 
minie continued  to  make  mademoiselle's  bed,  her 
mistress  assisting  her  to  raise  the  mattress.  She 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

continued  to  prepare  her  food,  and  this  was  more 
horrible  to  her  than  anything  else. 

When  she  was  getting  ready  mademoiselle's 
breakfast  and  dinner,  she  felt  herself  dying  in  her 
little  kitchen,  one  of  those  wretched  little  kitchens 
found  in  large  towns,  which  make  so  many  women 
consumptive.  The  embers  which  she  kindled  and 
from  which  rose  slowly  a  thread  of  acrid  smoke, 
would  begin  to  make  her  heart  grow  faint;  then 
the  charcoal  -  -  which  the  dealer  next  door  sold 
her  —  strong  Paris  charcoal  full  of  smoking  pieces, 
wrapped  her  in  its  giddy  odor.  The  dirty,  badly 
drawing  stovepipe  and  the  low  chimney-cover 
sent  back  into  her  lungs  the  unhealthy  respiration 
of  the  fire,  and  the  corroding  heat  of  the  breast- 
high  stove.  She  choked,  she  could  feel  the  redness 
and  heat  of  all  her  blood  rising  to  her  face  and 
making  patches  on  her  forehead.  Her  head  swam. 
In  a  state  of  semi- asphyxiation  like  that  of  laun- 
dresses ironing  amidst  the  steam  from  their  heaters, 
she  would  dash  to  the  window,  and  inhale  a  little 
of  the  icy  air. 

As  an  inducement  to  being  astir  when  suffering, 
and  her  activity  continuing  in  spite  of  her  weak- 
ness, she  had  more  than  the  repugnance  of  those 
belonging  to  the  people  to  keeping  her  bed,  more 
than  the  wild,  jealous  disinclination  to  suffer  the 
attentions  of  another  to  be  about  mademoiselle; 
she  was  in  terror  of  the  accusation  that  might 
find  an  entrance  with  a  new  servant.  It  was  nec- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

essary  that  she  should  be  there  to  watch  made- 
moiselle, and  prevent  anyone  from  coming  near 
her.  Then  again  it  was  necessary  that  she  should 
show  herself,  that  the  neighborhood  should  see 
her,  that  she  should  not  be  like  a  dead  woman 
in  the  eyes  of  her  creditors.  It  was  necessary  that 
she  should  make  a  pretense  of  being  strong,  even  that 
she  should  act  the  appearance  and  cheerfulness  of 
life,  that  she  should  confide  in  the  whole  street 
with  an  adaptation  of  the  doctor's  language,  with 
a  look  of  hopefulness,  with  a  promise  not  to  die. 
It  was  necessary  that  she  should  put  a  good  face 
on  the  matter  to  reassure  her  creditors,  to  prevent 
the  alarms  of  the  money  from  ascending  the  stair- 
case and  having  recourse  to  mademoiselle. 

This  horrible  and  necessary  comedy  she  sus- 
tained. She  was  heroic  in  bringing  her  whole  body 
to  lie,  drawing  up  her  sinking  figure  in  front  of 
the  shops  that  were  watching  her,  hastening  her 
dragging  footsteps,  rubbing  her  cheeks  with  a 
rough  towel  before  go'ng  downstairs  in  order  to 
bring  the  color  of  blood  into  them  again,  in  order 
to  disguise  on  her  face  the  paleness  of  her  disease 
and  the  mask  of  her  death! 

In  spite  of  the  fearful  cough  that  racked  her 
sleeplessness  throughout  the  night,  in  spite  of  the 
loathing  with  which  her  stomach  rejected  food, 
she  passed  the  whole  winter  in  thus  conquering 
and  subduing  herself,  in  struggling  with  the  ups 
and  downs  of  her  illness. 

[284] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

Whenever  the  doctor  came  he  told  mademoiselle 
that  he  saw  none  of  the  organs  essential  to  life 
seriously  attacked.  The  lungs  indeed  were  some- 
what ulcerated,  but  that  was  curable.  "Only, 
her  body  is  much  impaired,  much  impaired,"  he 
would  repeat  in  a  certain  tone  of  sadness,  and 
with  an  almost  embarrassed  air  which  struck 
mademoiselle.  And  at  the  end  of  his  visits  he 
always  spoke  of  change  of  air  and  of  the  country. 


LX 


IN  the  month  of  August  this  was  all  that  the 
doctor  had  to  advise  and  order  —  the  country. 
Notwithstanding  the  reluctance  which  old 
people  have  to  move,  to  change  their  surroundings, 
their  habits,  the  laws  of  their  lives;  in  spite  of  her 
domestic  temperament  and  of  the  species  of  wrench 
which  she  felt  in  tearing  herself  away  from  her 
home,  mademoiselle  resolved  to  take  Germinie  into 
the  country.  She  wrote  to  a  daughter  of  the 
"chick's,"  who  was  living  with  a  nestful  of  chil- 
dren on  a  pretty  little  property  in  a  village  in  Brie, 
and  who  had  for  years  been  soliciting  a  long  visit 
from  her.  She  requested  her  hospitality  during 
a  month  or  six  weeks  for  herself  and  her  sick  maid. 
They  took  their  departure.  Germinie  was 
happy.  On  her  arrival  she  felt  better.  For  a  few 
days  her  illness  appeared  to  be  diverted  by  the 
change.  But  the  summer  of  that  year  was  un- 
certain, rainy,  mixed  with  sudden  variations  and 
sudden  blasts.  Germinie  caught  a  chill;  and 
mademoiselle  soon  heard  the  frightful  cough  which 
had  been  so  intolerable  and  painful  to  her  in  Paris, 
beginning  again  overhead,  just  above  where  she 
slept.  There  were  urgent,  and,  as  it  were,  strangled 

C286I] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

fits,  pausing  for  a  moment  and  then  beginning 
again,  fits  the  intervals  in  which  left  ear  and  heart 
nervously  waiting  and  anxious  for  what  would 
return,  for  what  always  did  return,  burst  forth, 
break  down,  and  die  away  once  more,  vibrating 
however,  even  when  abated,  without  ever  becom- 
ing silent  or  stopping. 

Nevertheless  Germinie  rose  after  these  horrible 
nights  with  an  energy  and  activity  which  aston- 
ished, and  at  times  reassured,  mademoiselle.  She 
was  afoot  with  everybody.  One  morning  at  five 
o'clock  she  went  three  leagues  off  in  a  car  with 
the  man-servant,  to  get  some  fish  at  a  mill;  another 
time  she  dragged  herself  to  the  holiday  ball  with 
the  maids  belonging  to  the  house,  returning  with 
them  only  at  daylight.  She  waked  and  assisted 
the  servants.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  in  a 
corner  of  the  kitchen,  she  was  always  engaged  in 
doing  something  with  her  fingers.  Mademoiselle 
was  obliged  to  make  her  go  out,  to  send  her  to  sit 
in  the  garden.  Germinie  used  then  to  go  and 
place  herself  on  the  green  bench,  with  her  parasol 
open  over  her  head,  and  the  sunshine  on  her  skirt 
and  feet.  Perfectly  still,  she  forgot  herself  in 
breathing  in  the  day,  the  light,  the  warmth,  in  a 
sort  of  passionate  inhaling  and  feverish  happiness. 
Her  lips  relaxed,  and  partially  opened  to  the 
breath  of  the  open  air.  Her  eyes  burned  without 
moving;  and  in  the  bright  shadow  glancing  from 
the  silk  of  the  parasol,  her  worn,  emaciated,  fune- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

real  countenance  looked  forth  like  a  death's  head 
in  love. 

Weary  as  she  was  in  the  evening,  nothing  could 
induce  her  to  go  to  bed  before  her  mistress.  She 
wished  to  be  there  to  undress  her.  Seated  beside 
her,  she  used  to  get  up  from  time  to  time  to  wait 
on  her  as  well  as  she  could,  assist  her  to  take  off  a 
petticoat,  then  sit  down  again,  collect  her  strength 
for  a  moment,  and  once  more  rise  and  try  to  help 
her  in  something.  Mademoiselle  had  to  make 
her  sit  down  again  by  force  and  order  her  to  re- 
main quiet.  And  the  whole  time  that  this  evening 
toilet  lasted  there  was  always  the  same  repetition 
in  her  mouth  about  the  servants  of  the  house. 

"Do  you  know,  mademoiselle,  you  have  no  idea 
what  eyes  the  cook  and  man-servant  make  at  each 
other  when  they  think  they  are  not  seen.  They 
still  restrain  themselves  when  I  am  there;  but 
the  other  day  I  surprised  them  in  the  bake-house. 
They  were  kissing,  only  fancy!  Fortunately  ma- 
dame  here  does  not  suspect  it." 

"Ah!  there  you  go  again  with  your  stories! 
But  good  gracious,"  mademoiselle  would  say, 
"whether  they  make  fools  of  each  other,  or  not, 
what  affair  is  that  of  yours?  They  are  kind  to 
you,  are  they  not?  That  is  all  that's  wanted." 

"Oh!  very  kind,  mademoiselle;  in  that  respect 
I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  Marie  got  up  last 
night  to  give  me  a  drink,  and  as  for  him,  whenever 
there  is  any  dessert  left  it  is  always  for  me.  Oh! 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

he  is  very  good  to  me;  Marie  even  doesn't  quite 
like  his  being  so  attentive  to  me  —  you  understand, 
mademoiselle." 

"Come,  be  off  to  bed  with  all  your  nonsense," 
mademoiselle  would  say  abruptly  to  her,  being 
sorrowfully  impatient  to  see  a  sick  person  so 
eagerly  occupied  with  the  loves  of  others. 


£289:1 


LXI 

ON  their  return  from  the  country  the  doctor, 
after  examining  Germinie,  said  to  made- 
moiselle: 

"It  has  been  rapid,  very  rapid.  The  left  lung  is 
quite  gone.  The  right  one  is  attacked  in  the  upper 
part,  and  I  am  greatly  afraid  that  the  mischief 
has  spread  through  her  entire  system.  She  is  a 
lost  woman.  She  may  live  another  six  weeks, 
or  at  the  very  most  two  months." 

"Ah!  Heavens,'*  said  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil,  "all  that  I  have  loved  will  go  before  me! 
Must  I  go  after  everybody  else?" 

"Have  you  thought  of  placing  her  anywhere, 
mademoiselle?"  said  the  doctor  after  a  moment's 
silence.  'You  cannot  keep  her.  It  would  be  too 
much  trouble  for  you  --it  would  be  a  grief  to  you 
to  have  her  there,"  the  doctor  added  in  reply  to  a 
gesture  from  mademoiselle. 

"No,  no,  I  have  not  thought  of  it.  Ah!  yes,  to 
send  her  away!  But  you  have  seen  that  she  is  not 
a  maid  or  a  servant  to  me;  she  is  like  the  family 
that  I  never  had.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  say 
to  her:  'Now  be  off!*  Ah!  it  is  the  first  time  I 
have  so  keenly  regretted  that  I  am  not  rich,  and 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

that  I  have  such  wretched  rooms.  But  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  speak  to  her  about  it!  And 
then  where  could  she  go?  To  Dubois?  To  Du- 
bois  indeed!  She  went  there  to  see  the  servant 
that  I  had  before  her  and  that  died  there.  You 
might  as  well  kill  her  at  once!  The  hospital,  then? 
No,  not  there:  I  will  not  have  her  die  there!" 

"Upon  my  word,  mademoiselle,  she  would  be 
a  hundred  times  better  off  there  than  here.  I 
would  enter  her  at  Lariboisiere  under  the  care  of 
a  doctor  who  is  a  friend  of  mine.  I  would  recom- 
mend her  to  a  house-surgeon  who  is  a  good  deal 
indebted  to  me.  She  would  have  a  very  kind  sister 
in  the  ward  where  I  would  have  her  placed,  and  if 
necessary  she  would  have  a  private  room.  But 
I  am  sure  that  she  would  prefer  to  be  in  a  general 
ward.  You  see,  mademoiselle,  it's  a  step  that 
must  be  taken;  she  cannot  remain  in  the  room 
upstairs.  You  know  what  these  horrible  servants' 
rooms  are.  I  go  so  far  as  to  think  that  the  sanitary 
inspectors  ought  to  force  the  owners  into  humanity 
on  the  point;  it  is  shameful!  The  cold  weather 
will  soon  be  here;  there  is  no  fireplace,  and  with 
the  skylight  and  the  roof,  it  will  be  an  icehouse. 
You  see  that  she  is  still  keeping  up  -  Oh,  yes, 
she  has  astonishing  courage,  prodigious  nervous 
vitality.  But  in  spite  of  it  all  she  will  have  to 
take  to  her  bed  in  a  few  days,  and  she  will  never 
get  up  again.  Come,  be  reasonable,  mademoiselle 
Let  me  speak  to  her;  will  you?" 

£2913 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"No,  not  yet.  The  thought  of  it  —  I  must  grow 
accustomed  to  it.  And  then  seeing  her  about  me 
I  think  that  she  will  not  die  so  soon  as  that.  We 
shall  have  plenty  of  time.  Later  on,  we  can  see 
about  it,  yes  —  later  on.*' 

"Forgive  me,  mademoiselle,  but  permit  me  to 
tell  you  that  you  may  make  yourself  ill  by  nurs- 
ing her." 

"I? --Oh!  I!-  '  and  mademoiselle  made  a 
gesture  like  that  of  one  whose  life  is  quite  done  for. 


£292:1 


LXII 

AMID  the  despairing  anxieties  caused  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  by  her  maid's 
illness,  there  crept  in  a  singular  feeling,  a 
certain  fear  in  the  presence  of  the  new,  strange, 
mysterious  creature  which  the  disease  had  evoked 
out  of  Germinie's  inner  nature.  Mademoiselle  felt 
a  sort  of  uneasiness  beside  a  face  that  was  ab- 
sorbed, buried,  almost  hidden  in  implacable  hard- 
ness, and  that  seemed  to  recover  and  return  to 
itself  only  transitorily,  in  gleams,  in  the  effort  of 
a  wan  smile.  The  old  woman  had  seen  many 
people  die;  her  long  and  sorrowful  memory 
brought  back  to  her  many  expressions  of  dear, 
doomed  faces,  many  sad,  downcast,  distressed 
expressions  of  death,  but  none  of  the  countenances 
that  she  remembered  had  in  its  decline  assumed 
the  sombre  appearance  of  one  retiring  into  seclu- 
sion within  itself. 

Locked  in  her  suffering,  Germinie  continued 
solitary,  stiff,  concentrated,  impenetrable.  She 
had  the  immobility  of  bronze.  As  she  looked  at 
her,  mademoiselle  would  ask  herself  what  she  was 
thus  brooding  quietly  over,  whether  it  was  dis- 
gust of  her  life,  horror  of  death,  or  perhaps  some 

£293:1 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

secret,  some  ground  for  remorse.  Nothing  ex- 
ternal seemed  to  affect  the  sick  woman.  Her  per- 
ception of  things  was  going  from  her.  Her  body 
was  becoming  indifferent  to  everything;  it  no 
longer  sought  for  comfort  or  seemed  desirous  of 
being  cured.  She  made  no  complaint,  and  found 
no  pleasure  or  diversion  in  anything.  Even  her 
yearnings  after  affection  had  left  her.  She  never 
bestowed  a  mark  of  endearment,  and  every  day 
something  of  humanity  quitted  this  woman's  soul 
which  appeared  to  be  growing  petrified.  Often 
she  sank  into  a  silence  that  prompted  waiting  for 
the  anguish  of  a  cry,  of  an  utterance;  but  after 
casting  her  eyes  around  her  she  would  say  nothing 
and  again  set  herself  to  gaze  at  the  same  spot,  in 
vacancy,  before  her,  fixedly,  everlastingly. 

When  mademoiselle  returned  from  a  friend's 
house  where  she  had  been  dining,  she  used  to  find 
Germinie  sunk  in  an  easy-chair,  in  the  dark,  with- 
out any  light,  her  legs  stretched  out  upon  a  chair, 
her  head  bowed  upon  her  breast,  and  herself  so 
deeply  absorbed  that  sometimes  she  did  not  hear 
the  opening  of  the  door.  As  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  advanced  into  the  room  it  seemed  to 
her  as  though  she  were  disturbing  a  terrible 
interview  between  Sickness  and  Shade,  wherein 
Germinie  was  already  seeking  the  terror  of  the 
invisible,  the  blindness  of  the  grave  and  the 
darkness  of  death. 

£294:1 


LXIII 

THROUGHOUT  the  month  of  October  Ger- 
minie  persisted  in  her  unwillingness  to  stay 
in  bed.  Every  day,  however,  she  was  feebler, 
weaker,  more  deserted  by  her  bodily  powers.  She 
could  with  difficulty  ascend  the  flight  that  led  to 
her  sixth  story,  drawing  herself  up  by  the  banister. 
At  last  she  used  to  fall  down  on  the  stairs,  and  the 
other  servants  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  to  her 
room.  But  this  did  not  stop  her:  the  next  day 
she  came  down  again  with  that  gleam  of  strength 
which  the  morning  gives  to  the  sick.  She  pre- 
pared mademoiselle's  breakfast,  made  a  pretense 
of  working,  and  still  went  about  the  room  hold- 
ing on  to  the  furniture  and  dragging  herself  along. 
Mademoiselle  used  to  take  pity  on  her,  and  make 
her  lie  down  on  her  own  bed.  Then,  Germinie 
rested  in  it  for  half  an  hour,  without  sleeping  or 
speaking  and  with  open,  motionless  and  unsettled 
eyes,  like  a  person  in  pain. 

One  morning  she  did  not  come  down.  Made- 
moiselle ascended  to  the  sixth  floor,  turned  down 
a  narrow,  evil-smelling  corridor  through  the  ser- 
vants' quarters,  and  reached  Germinie's  door, 
which  was  No.  21.  Germinie  asked  her  forgive- 

£295:] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ness  for  having  made  her  come  up.  She  had  found 
it  impossible  to  set  her  foot  to  the  ground.  She 
had  great  pains  in  the  stomach,  which  was  quite 
swelled.  She  begged  mademoiselle  to  sit  down 
for  a  moment,  and,  to  make  room  for  her,  took 
away  the  candlestick  which  was  on  the  chair  at 
the  head  of  the  bed. 

Mademoiselle  sat  down,  and  remained  for  a  few 
moments  looking  at  this  wretched  servant's  room, 
one  of  those  rooms  in  which  the  doctor  is  obliged 
to  lay  his  hat  upon  the  bed,  and  in  which  there 
is  scarcely  room  to  die!  It  was  a  garret  a  few  feet 
square  without  a  fireplace,  in  which  the  skylight 
(kept  open  by  a  rack)  gave  passage  to  the  breath 
of  the  seasons,  the  heat  of  summer  and  the  cold 
of  winter.  The  lumber  of  old  trunks  and  carpet- 
bags, a  towel-basket,  and  the  little  iron  bedstead 
on  which  Germinie  had  laid  her  niece,  were  heaped 
together  under  the  sloping  roof.  The  bed,  a  chair, 
and  a  small,  rickety  dressing-table  with  a  broken 
hand-basin,  formed  the  whole  of  the  furniture. 
Above  the  bed  hung  the  daguerreotype  of  a  man, 
in  a  frame  painted  to  resemble  rosewood. 

The  doctor  came  during  the  day. 

"Ah!  peritonitis,"  he  said  when  mademoiselle 
had  informed  him  of  Germinie's  condition.  He 
went  up  to  see  the  patient. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said  on  coming  down  again, 
"that  there  is  an  abscess  in  the  intestine  com- 
municating with  an  abscess  in  the  bladder.  It 

£296:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

is  very  serious,  very  serious.  She  must  be  told 
not  to  make  any  great  movement  in  the  bed,  and 
to  turn  herself  with  caution.  She  might  die  of 
a  sudden  in  the  most  frightful  pain.  I  proposed 
to  her  that  she  should  go  to  Lariboisiere,  and  she 
acquiesced  at  once.  She  has  no  aversion  to  doing 
so.  The  only  thing  is  that  I  do  not  know  how 
she  will  stand  the  moving.  But  after  all,  she  has 
such  energy;  I  never  knew  anyone  like  her.  To- 
morrow morning  you  shall  have  the  order  for 
admission." 

When  mademoiselle  went  up  again  to  see  Ger- 
minie,  she  found  her  smiling  in  bed,  cheerful  at  the 
thought  of  going  away. 

"Come,  mademoiselle,"  she  cried  to  her,  "it's 
only  a  matter  of  six  weeks." 


£297!! 


LXIV 

AT  two  o'clock  on  the  following  day  the  doc- 
tor brought  the  admission  order.  The  in- 
valid was  ready  to  set  out.  Mademoiselle 
proposed  to  her  that  she  should  go  on  a  stretcher, 
which  would  be  brought  from  the  hospital. 

"Oh!  no,"  said  Germinie  eagerly,  "I  should 
believe  myself  dead."  She  was  thinking  of  her 
debts;  she  must  show  herself  to  her  creditors  in 
the  street,  alive  and  afoot  until  the  end! 

She  got  out  of  bed.  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil  assisted  her  to  put  on  her  petticoat  and  her 
dress.  As  soon  as  she  had  left  her  bed,  the  life 
disappeared  from  her  face,  and  the  fire  from  her 
complexion;  it  seemed  as  though  earth  were 
suddenly  rising  under  her  skin.  Clinging  to  the 
banister,  she  descended  the  steep  flight  of  the 
back-staircase,  and  reached  the  rooms  below.  They 
made  her  sit  down  on  an  easy-chair  in  the  dining- 
room  near  the  window.  She  wished  to  put  on  her 
stockings  quite  by  herself,  and  as  she  drew  them 
up  with  a  poor,  trembling  hand  whose  fingers 
knocked  together,  she  showed  a  little  of  her  legs 
which  were  so  thin  as  to  be  frightful.  The  char- 
woman, meanwhile,  was  putting  up  into  a  bundle 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

a  little  linen,  a  glass,  a  cup  and  a  tin  case  con- 
taining knife,  fork,  and  spoon,  which  Germinie 
had  wished  to  take  with  her.  When  this  was  done 
Germinie  looked  for  a  moment  all  around  her; 
she  took  the  room  into  a  last  embrace  which 
seemed  as  though  it  would  carry  the  things  away. 
Then  her  eyes  rested  on  the  door  through  which 
the  charwoman  had  just  gone  out:  "At  least," 
she  said  to  mademoiselle,  "I  leave  you  someone 
who  is  honest." 

She  got  up.  The  door  closed  behind  her  with 
a  sound  of  good-bye,  and  supported  by  Made- 
moiselle de  Varandeuil,  who  almost  carried  her, 
she  went  down  the  five  stories  by  the  principal 
staircase.  At  every  landing  she  stopped  and  took 
breath.  In  the  entrance-hall  she  found  the  con- 
cierge who  had  brought  her  a  chair.  The  stout 
fellow  laughed  and  promised  her  health  in  six  weeks. 
She  moved  her  head  with  a  stifled:  "Yes!  yes!" 

She  was  in  the  cab  beside  her  mistress.  The 
cab  was  hard,  and  jolted  over  the  stones.  She 
kept  her  body  advanced  to  avoid  the  shocks  of 
the  jolting,  and  clung  to  the  hand  of  the  con- 
cierge's wife.  She  watched  the  houses  gliding 
past,  and  kept  silence.  On  reaching  the  door  of 
the  hospital  she  would  not  be  carried. 

"Can  you  go  as  far  as  that?"  asked  the  porter, 
showing  her  the  reception  room  twenty  paces  off. 

She  made  a  sign  of  assent  and  went  in;  it  was 
a  dead  woman  walking  because  she  desired  to  walk! 

£2993 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

At  last  she  reached  the  large  lofty  room,  cold, 
rigid,  spotless,  and  terrible,  the  wooden  benches 
in  which  formed  a  circle  round  the  stretcher  in 
waiting.  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  made  her 
sit  down  on  a  straw  easy-chair  near  an  office 
window.  A  clerk  opened  the  window,  asked 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  Germinie's  name  and 
age,  and  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  filling  ten 
sheets  of  paper,  marked  at  the  top  with  a  religious 
figure,  with  writing.  This  done,  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil  turned  and  kissed  her;  she  saw  an 
attendant  take  her  under  the  arm,  then  she  saw 
her  no  more,  hastened  away,  and  falling  upon  the 
cushions  of  the  cab  burst  into  sobs,  giving  free 
course  to  all  the  tears  that  had  been  stifling  her 
heart  for  an  hour  past.  On  his  seat  at  the  back 
the  coachman  was  astonished  to  hear  such  loud 
weeping. 


£300:] 


LXV 

WHEN  Thursday,  which  was  the  day  for 
visitors,  had  come,  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil  set  out  at  half-past  twelve  to  see 
Germinie.  She  wanted  to  be  at  her  bedside  at 
the  very  moment  of  admission,  at  one  o'clock 
precisely.  Passing  again  through  the  streets  which 
she  had  traversed  four  days  before,  she  recalled 
the  frightful  journey  of  Monday.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  in  the  vehicle  in  which  she  sat  alone,  she 
was  inconveniencing  the  body  of  a  sick  person, 
and  she  kept  in  the  corner  of  the  cab  as  though 
to  leave  room  for  the  recollection  of  Germinie. 
How  was  she  going  to  find  her?  Would  she  so 
much  as  find  her?  What  if  her  bed  were  to  prove 
empty? 

The  cab  threaded  a  little  street  full  of  carts  of 
oranges,  and  women  who,  sitting  on  the  footpaths, 
sold  biscuits  in  baskets.  There  was  something 
wretched  and  lugubrious  in  this  open-air  display 
of  fruits  and  cakes,  delicacies  for  the  dying,  vi- 
aticums for  the  sick,  looked  for  by  fever,  hoped 
for  by  the  last  agony,  and  taken  in  the  black 
hands  of  toil  to  be  brought  to  the  hospital  as  a 
tit-bit  for  death.  Children  were  bringing  them  as 

C30IU 


GERM  INI  F.    LACERTEUX 

though  they  understood,  gravely,  almost  piously, 
and  without  touching  them. 

The  cab  stopped  in  front  of  the  railing  of  the 
court-yard.  It  was  five  minutes  to  one.  At  the 
gate  thronged  a  file  of  women  in  their  work-day 
dresses,  crowded,  sombre,  sorrowful  and  silent. 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  took  her  place  in  the 
file,  advanced  with  the  rest  and  entered.  She  was 
searched.  She  asked  for  the  Sainte-Josephine 
ward,  and  was  directed  to  the  second  pavilion  on 
the  second  floor.  She  found  the  ward,  then  the 
bed,  bed  No.  14,  which,  as  she  had  been  told,  was 
one  of  the  last  on  the  right.  Moreover  she  was, 
so  to  speak,  summoned  to  it  from  the  end  of  the 
ward  by  Germinie's  smile,  the  smile  of  a  hospital 
patient  at  an  unexpected  visit,  which  says  so 
gently,  as  soon  as  the  visitor  enters: 

"Here,  here  I  am." 

She  bent  over  the  bed.  Germinie  tried  to  repel 
her  with  a  gesture  of  humility  and  the  modesty 
of  a  servant 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  kissed  her. 

"Ah!"  said  Germinie  to  her,  "the  time  appeared 
very  long  to  me  yesterday.  I  had  fancied  it  was 
Thursday  —  and  I  was  wearying  for  you." 

"Poor  girl!    And  how  are  you?" 

"Oh!  it's  all  right  now --the  swelling  in  my 
stomach  has  gone  down.  I've  three  weeks  to  be 
here,  mademoiselle.  They  say  I've  a  month  or 
six  weeks  but  I  know  about  myself.  And  then 

£302;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

I'm  very  comfortable;  I'm  not  dull.  I  sleep  at 
night  now.  I  was  thirsty  when  you  brought  me  on 
Monday!  They  won't  give  me  wine  and  water." 

"What  have  you  there  to  drink?" 

"Oh!  the  same  as  at  home  —  the  white  of  an 
egg.  See,  mademoiselle,  will  you  pour  me  out 
some?  Their  tin  things  are  so  heavy." 

And  raising  herself  by  one  arm  by  means  of  the 
little  stick  hanging  over  the  middle  of  her  bed,  and 
holding  out  the  other,  bared  by  the  drawing  back 
of  the  night-dress,  thin,  shivering,  for  the  glass 
which  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  handed  to  her, 
she  drank. 

;<  There,"  she  said  when  she  had  finished,  lay- 
ing her  two  arms  at  full  length  on  the  sheet  out- 
side the  bed-clothes.  "Poor  mademoiselle,"  she 
resumed,  "must  I  give  you  all  this  trouble?  It 
must  be  downright  dirty  at  home." 

"Don't  mind  about  that." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  A  colorless 
smile  came  upon  Germinie's  lips: 

"I've  been  smuggling,"  she  said  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Varandeuil,  lowering  her  voice,  "I've 
confessed  in  order  to  feel  comfortable." 

Then,  putting  her  head  forward  on  the  pillow 
so  as  to  be  closer  to  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil's  ear,  she  went  on: 

;'  There  are  tales  to  be  told  here.  I  have  a 
funny  neighbor,  there,  see,"  with  a  glance  and  a 
movement  of  her  shoulder  she  indicated  the  sick 

C3033 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

woman,  towards  whom  her  back  was  turned.  "She 
has  a  man  who  comes  to  see  her  here.  He  spoke 
to  her  yesterday  for  an  hour.  I  could  hear  that 
they  had  a  child.  She  has  left  her  husband.  He 
was  like  a  madman,  that  man  was,  while  he  was 
talking  to  her." 

And  as  she  said  this  Germinie  grew  animated 
as  though  she  were  still  quite  full  of  this  scene  and 
quite  tormented  by  it,  quite  feverish  and  jealous, 
though  so  near  death,  at  having  heard  love  be- 
side her! 

Then  suddenly  her  countenance  changed.  A 
woman  was  coming  toward  her  bed.  The  new- 
comer acted  embarrassed  on  seeing  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil.  After  a  few  minutes  she  kissed 
Germinie,  and,  as  another  woman  wras  coming, 
took  leave  in  haste.  The  new-comer  acted  in  the 
same  manner,  kissed  Germinie  and  left  her  imme- 
diately. After  the  woman  a  man  came;  then 
there  was  another  woman.  They  all,  after  a 
moment,  bent  down  to  kiss  the  patient,  and  in 
every  kiss  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  vaguely 
gathered  a  muttering  of  words,  an  exchanging 
of  utterances,  a  low  question  from  those  who  were 
kissing,  and  a  r,apid  reply  from  her  who  was  kissed. 

"Well!"  she  said  to  Germinie.  "They're  look- 
ing well  after  you,  I  hope!" 

"Ah!  yes,"  repeated  Germinie  in  a  strange 
voice,  "they  are  looking  after  me!" 

She  had  no  longer  the  same  lively  appearance  as 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

at  the  beginning  of  the  visit.  A  little  blood  which 
had  mounted  into  her  cheeks  had  remained  there 
only  in  the  form  of  a  spot.  Her  countenance 
seemed  to  be  shut;  it  was  cold  and  dead  like  a 
wall.  Her  lips  were  drawn  in  and  as  though  sealed. 
Her  features  were  hidden  beneath  the  veil  of  mute 
and  infinite  suffering.  There  was  no  longer  any- 
thing caressing  and  speaking  in  her  motionless  eyes 
which  were  occupied  and  filled  with  a  thought. 
It  seemed  as  though  a  boundless  internal  concen- 
tration, a  wish  born  of  the  last  hour  brought  back 
within  her  person  all  the  external  tokens  of  her 
ideas,  and  that  her  whole  being  remained  de- 
spairingly fastened  upon  a  grief  that  drew  every- 
thing to  itself. 

For  the  visits  that  she  had  just  received  were 
those  of  the  fruiterer,  the  grocer,  the  butter- 
woman,  and  the  laundress  —  of  all  her  living 
debts!  These  kisses  were  the  kisses  of  all  her 
creditors  coming  to  scent  out  their  dues  and 
blackmail  her  death-agony  in  an  embrace! 


LXVI 

MADEMOISELLE  had  just  risen  on  Satur- 
day morning.  She  was  about  to  make  up 
a  little  basket  of  four  pots  of  Bar-Ie-Duc 
preserve  which  she  intended  to  take  to  Germinie  the 
next  day,  when  she  heard  low  voices,  a  colloquy 
in  the  ante-chamber  between  the  charwoman  and 
the  concierge.  Then  almost  immediately  the  door 
opened,  and  the  concierge  came  in. 

"Sad  news,  mademoiselle,"  he  said. 

And  he  held  out  a  letter  which  he  had  in  his 
hand;  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the  hospital  of  Lari- 
boisiere:  Germinie  had  died  that  morning  at 
seven  o'clock. 

Mademoiselle  took  the  paper;  she  saw  nothing 
in  it  but  the  words  saying  to  her:  "Dead!  dead!" 
And  it  was  for  nothing  that  the  letter  repeated  to 
her:  "Dead!  dead!"  for  she  could  not  believe  it. 
Like  those  of  whose  end  we  are  informed  with 
suddenness,  Germinie  appeared  to  her  full  of  life, 
and  her  person  which  was  no  more  came  before  her 
with  the  supreme  presence  of  someone's  shadow. 
Dead!  She  would  see  her  no  more!  There  was 
no  longer  a  Germinie  in  the  world!  Dead!  she 
was  dead!  And  the  person  who  would  now  move 

C306H 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

about  in  the  kitchen,  would  be  no  longer  she;  the 
person  who  would  open  the  door  for  her  would 
be  no  longer  she;  the  person  who  would  roam 
about  in  her  room  in  the  morning  would  be  another! 

"Germinie!"  she  cried  at  last,  with  the  cry  with 
which  she  used  to  call  her;  then  she  recovered 
herself:  "Machine!  Thing!  What  do  you  call 
yourself?"  she  said  harshly  to  the  disconcerted 
charwoman.  "My  dress--!  must  go  there!" 

So  rapid  an  issue  of  the  illness  was  such  an 
abrupt  surprise  that  her  thoughts  could  not  accus- 
tom themselves  to  it.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
she  could  conceive  this  sudden,  secret  and  vague 
death,  which,  to  her,  was  wholly  comprised  within 
this  scrap  of  paper.  Was  Germinie  really  dead? 
Mademoiselle  asked  herself  the  question  with  the 
doubtfulness  of  those  who  have  lost  at  a  distance 
some  one  that  is  dear  to  them  and,  not  having 
seen  the  death,  are  unwilling  to  believe  in  it. 
Had  she  not  seen  her  full  of  life,  on  the  last  occa- 
sion? How  had  this  happened?  How  had  she 
suddenly  become  that  which  is  good  for  nothing 
but  to  be  put  underground?  Mademoiselle  dared 
not  think  about  it,  and  yet  did  think  about  it. 
The  unknown  nature  of  this  death,  concerning 
which  she  was  in  complete  ignorance,  frightened 
and  attracted  her.  The  anxious  inquisitiveness 
of  her  affection  went  out  to  her  maid's  last  hours, 
and  she  tried  in  groping  fashion  to  raise  the  veil 
and  horror  that  shrouded  it.  Then  she  was  seized 

£307] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

with  an  irrepressible  longing  to  know  everything, 
to  be  a  spectator,  through  what  was  told  her,  of 
what  she  had  not  seen.  She  must  learn  whether 
Germinie  had  spoken  before  dying,  whether  she 
had  expressed  a  desire,  or  testified  a  wish,  or  given 
utterance  to  one  of  those  words  which  are  life's 
last  cry. 

On  reaching  Lariboisiere,  she  passed  the  con- 
cierge, a  stout  man  reeking  of  life  as  one  reeks  of 
wine,  traversed  the  corridors  in  which  pale  con- 
valescents were  gliding  about,  and  at  the  very 
end  of  the  hospital  rang  at  a  door  draped  with 
white  curtains.  It  was  opened,  and  she  found 
herself  in  a  parlor  lighted  by  two  windows,  in 
which  a  plaster  image  of  the  Holy  Virgin  stood 
on  an  altar  between  two  views  of  Vesuvius  which 
seemed  to  be  quivering  there  against  the  naked 
wall.  From  an  open  door  behind  her  issued  a 
prattling  of  sisters  and  little  girls,  a  sound  of 
young  voices  and  fresh  laughter,  the  merriment 
of  a  clean  room  wherein  the  sunshine  sports  with 
children  at  play. 

Mademoiselle  asked  to  speak  to  the  Mother  of 
the  Sainte-Josephine  ward.  A  little,  half-de- 
formed sister  came  to  her,  with  a  face  that  was 
ugly  and  good,  a  face  like  the  mercy  of  God. 
Germinie  had  died  in  her  arms. 

"Her  pain  was  almost  gone,"  the  sister  told 
mademoiselle;  "she  was  better;  she  was  feeling 
relief;  she  had  hope.  About  seven  o'clock  in  the 

C308H 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

morning,  just  after  her  bed  had  been  made,  and 
without  realizing  that  she  was  dying,  she  was 
suddenly  seized  with  a  vomiting  of  blood  during 
which  she  passed  away." 

The  sister  added  that  she  had  said  nothing, 
asked  for  nothing,  wished  for  nothing. 

Mademoiselle  rose,  freed  from  the  horrible 
thoughts  that  she  had  had.  Germinie  had  been 
saved  from  all  the  dying  agonies  which  she  had 
imagined.  Mademoiselle  blessed  such  a  death 
from  the  hand  of  God  which  gathers  the  soul  at 
a  single  stroke. 

As  she  was  going  out,  an  attendant  coming  up 
to  her  said:  "Will  you  identify  the  body?" 

The  body!  The  expression  was  a  frightful  one 
to  mademoiselle.  Without  waiting  for  her  to  reply 
the  attendant  began  to  walk  before  her  until  he 
reached  a  large,  yellowish  door,  above  which  was 
written:  "Amphitheatre"  He  rapped:  a  man 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  with  a  cutty-pipe  in  his 
mouth  half  opened  the  door,  and  told  them  to 
wait  for  a  moment. 

Mademoiselle  waited.  Her  thoughts  frightened 
her.  Her  imagination  was  on  the  other  side  of  this 
door  of  terror.  She  tried  to  see  what  she  was  going 
to  see.  Filled  with  confused  images  and  conjured 
terrors,  she  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  entering  in 
there,  and  of  recognizing  amid  others  that  dis- 
figured countenance,  if  indeed  she  could  still 
recognize  it!  And  yet  she  could  not  tear  herself 

C3093 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

from  the  spot:    she  told  herself  that  she  would 
never  see  her  again! 

The  man  with  the  pipe  opened  the  door.  Made- 
moiselle saw  nothing  but  a  bier,  the  covering  of 
which,  reaching  only  as  far  as  the  neck,  allowed 
Germinie  to  be  seen  with  open  eyes,  and  with 
hair  lying  straight  back  from  her  head. 


LXVII 

BROKEN  down  by  these  emotions,  and  by 
this  last  sight,  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil 
took  to  her  bed  on  going  home,  after  giving 
money  to  the  concierge  for  the  sad  proceedings,  the 
burial,  the  concession  of  a  private  grave.  And 
when  she  was  in  bed,  what  she  had  seen  came  back 
before  her.  Horrible  death  was  always  near  her, 
and  the  frightful  countenance  framed  in  its  bier. 
Her  gaze  had  brought  away  this  unforgettable 
head  within  her;  beneath  her  closed  eyelids  she 
could  see  it,  and  was  afraid  of  it.  Germinie  was 
there,  with  the  discolored  features  of  a  murdered 
face,  with  her  hollow  sockets,  and  her  eyes  which 
seemed  to  have  shrunken  into  holes!  There  she 
was,  with  the  lips  still  distorted  by  the  pain  of 
vomiting  forth  her  last  breath!  There  she  was 
with  her  hair,  her  terrible  hair,  brushed  back 
straight  from  her  head! 

Her  hair!  It  was  this  that  especially  pursued 
mademoiselle.  The  old  maid  thought,  without 
wishing  to  think,  of  things  dropped  into  her  ear 
when  a  child,  of  popular  superstitions  lost  in  the 
depths  of  her  memory,  and  she  asked  herself 
whether  she  had  not  been  told  that  the  dead 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

whose  hair  is  thus  carry  away  a  crime  with  them 
when  they  die.  And  at  times  this  was  the  hair 
that  she  saw  on  this  head,  hair  of  crime,  upright 
with  terror  and  stiffened  with  horror  before  the 
justice  of  Heaven,  like  theliair  of  a  man  con- 
demned to  death  when  in  presence  of  the  scaffold 
on  the  Place  de  G  revel 

On  Sunday  mademoiselle  was  too  ill  to  leave 
her  bed.  On  Monday  she  sought  to  rise,  in  order 
to  go  to  the  funeral,  but  she  was  seized  with  weak- 
ness, and  was  obliged  to  lie  down  again. 


£312:1 


LXVIII 

WELL,  is  it  over?"  said  Mademoiselle  from 
her  bed,  on  seeing  the  concierge  coming 
into  her  apartment  from  the  cemetery  at 
eleven  o'clock,  in  a  black  frock-coat,  and  with  a 
look  of  compunction  suited  to  a  return  from  a 
funeral. 

"Yes,  indeed,  mademoiselle.  God  be  thanked, 
the  poor  girl  is  out  of  pain." 

"Here!  I  have  not  my  wits  about  me  to-day. 
Put  the  receipts  and  the  remainder  of  the  money 
on  my  night-table.  We'll  count  it  another  time." 

The  concierge  remained  standing  in  front  of  her 
without  stirring  or  going  away,  changing  a  blue 
velvet  skull-cap,  cut  out  of  the  dress  of  a  girl  be- 
longing to  the  house,  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 
After  a  moment  he  made  up  his  mind  to  speak. 

"  It's  dear,  mademoiselle,  getting  buried.  First 
there's  - 

"Who  told  you  to  calculate  it?"  interrupted 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil,  with  a  pride  of 
haughty  charity. 

The  concierge  continued: 

"And  then,  moreover,  a  grant  in  perpetuity, 
as  you  told  me  to  get,  is  not  to  be  had  for  nothing. 

£313:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

For  all  you've  a  good  heart,  mademoiselle,  you 
are  not  over-rich;  people  know  that,  and  they 
say  to  themselves:  'Mademoiselle  will  have 
plenty  to  pay,  and  we  know  mademoiselle  - 
she  will  pay.'  Well,  what  if  this  were  saved  her? 
It  will  be  so  much  to  the  good,  and  she  will  be 
all  right  underground.  Besides,  what  would  give 
her  most  satisfaction  up  above?  Why,  to  know, 
worthy  girl,  that  she's  not  wronging  anybody." 

'To  pay  what?"  said  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil,  rendered  impatient  by  the  concierge's  cir- 
cumlocutions. 

"Why,  it's  not  of  any  consequence,"  replied 
the  concierge,  "she  was  very  fond  of  you  all  the 
same.  And  then  when  she  was  so  ill,  it  was  not 
the  time,  --  dear  me,  it's  not  right  to  trouble  you 
about  it  —  there's  no  hurry --it's  the  money 
she  had  been  owing  for  sometime.  Here  it  is." 

And  he  drew  a  stamped  paper  from  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  coat. 

"  I  did  not  want  her  to  give  a  note  —  it  was  her 
own  doing." 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  seized  the  stamped 
paper,  and  at  the  bottom  of  it  saw  the  words: 

I  certify  that  the  above  statement  is  correct. 

GERMINIE  LACERTEUX 

It  was  an  acknowledgement  for  three  hundred 
francs,  payable  in  monthly  instalments,  the  latter 
to  be  entered  on  the  back  of  the  paper. 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

"There's  nothing,  you  see,"  said  the  concierge, 
turning  the  paper  round. 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles. 

"I  shall  pay  it,"  she  said. 

The  concierge  bowed.  She  looked  at  him:  he 
remained  where  he  was. 

"That  is  all,  I  hope?"  she  said  in  an  abrupt 
tone. 

The  concierge  had  again  begun  to  gaze  steadily 
at  a  square  in  the  floor. 

"That's  all --if - 

Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  felt  afraid,  just 
as  she  had  felt  afraid  when  passing  through  the 
door  behind  which  she  was  to  see  her  maid's  body. 

"But  how  is  it  that  she  owes  all  that?"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  gave  her  good  wages.  I  almost 
dressed  her.  Where  did  her  money  go?" 

"Ah!  there  it  is,  mademoiselle.  I'd  rather  not 
have  told  you,  but  it's  as  well  told  to-day  as  to- 
morrow. Besides,  it's  better  you  should  learn 
beforehand;  when  people  know  about  things, 
they  can  make  arrangements.  There's  an  account 
with  the  poultry-woman.  The  poor  girl  owes  a 
little  everywhere;  she  wasn't  very  regular  towards 
the  end.  The  laundress  left  her  book  the  last 
time  —  it  mounts  up  rather  high,  but  that's  all 
I  know  about  it.  It  seems  that  there's  a  bill  at 
the  grocer's  —  oh !  an  old  bill,  going  years  back. 
He'll  bring  you  his  book  —  ' 


GERMINIE     LACERTEUX 

"How  much  to  the  grocer?" 

"Somewhere  about  two  hundred  and  fifty." 

All  these  revelations  falling  upon  Mademoiselle 
de  Varandeuil  one  after  the  other  drew  from  her 
deep  exclamations.  Raising  herself  on  her  pillow, 
she  was  left  speechless  in  presence  of  this  life 
whose  veil  was  being  torn  away,  piece  by  piece, 
and  whose  shames  were  being  revealed  one  by  one. 

'Yes,  somewhere  about  two  hundred  and  fifty. 
There's  been  a  deal  of  wine,  by  what  he  says." 

"I  always  had  some  in  the  cellar  - 

'The   dairy-woman,"    resumed   the   concierge, 
without  replying-    "Oh!  nothing  very  much  - 
the   dairy- woman  —  seventy-five    francs.      There 
was  absinthe,   and  brandy  - 

"She  drank!"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  de 
Varandeuil,  who  at  this  word  guessed  everything. 

The  concierge  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"Ah!  you  see,  mademoiselle,  it  was  her  mis- 
fortune to  know  the  Jupillons  —  the  young  man. 
It  was  not  on  her  own  account  that  she  did  it; 
and  then,  what  with  sorrow  and  so  on,  she  took  to 
drinking.  You  must  know  she  hoped  to  marry 
him,  she  fitted  up  a  room  for  him,  and  when  people 
go  in  for  furniture,  money  soon  disappears.  She 
was  destroying  herself,  and  it  was  all  no  use  my 
telling  her  not  to  drown  herself  in  drink  as  she 
was  doing.  As  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  was  not 
going  to  tell  you,  as  you  may  believe,  when  she 
came  in  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It's  like 

C3I63 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

her  child  —  oh!"  the  concierge  went  on,  in  reply 
to  the  gesture  from  mademoiselle,  "it  was  precious 
lucky  the  baby  died.  There's  no  harm  in  telling 
you  she  led  a  fearful  life,  a  gay  old  time.  .  .  .  And 
so  about  the  ground  that's  —  why,  if  I  were  you, 
I'd  —  why,  she  cost  you  enough,  mademoiselle, 
as  long  as  she  was  eating  your  bread,  and  so  you 
may  as  well  leave  her  where  she  is  —  along  with 
everyone  else." 

"Ah!  so  that's  the  way  of  it!  That's  how  it 
was.  She  stole  for  her  lovers,  and  ran  into  debt, 
did  she?  Ah!  she  did  well  to  die!  And  I  have  to 
pay!  A  child!  Just  to  think  of  that,  the  trollop! 
Yes,  indeed,  she  may  rot  where  she  lies!  You 
did  well,  Monsieur  Henri!  Steal!  She  stole  from 
me!  It's  a  good  thing  for  her  that  she's  in  her 
coffin!  And  to  think  that  I  used  to  leave  her  all 
my  keys.  I  never  expected  that  she'd  —  good 
gracious !  that's  what  comes  of  putting  trust  in  one. 
Well,  yes,  I'll  pay,  not  on  her  account  but  on  my 
own.  And  I  gave  her  my  finest  pair  of  sheets 
to  be  buried  in.  Ah!  if  I  had  known,  I'd  have 
given  you  a  dish-cloth  —  nicely  swindled  as  I 
am!" 

And  mademoiselle  went  on  for  some  minutes 
until  the  words  choked  her  and  were  strangled  in 
her  throat. 


LXIX 

AFTER  this  scene,  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil  remained  for  a  week  in  bed,  sick  and 
furious,  filled  with  an  indignation  that  shook 
her  entire  heart,  that  overflowed  her  lips,  that 
wrung  from  her  at  times  some  coarse  insult  which 
she  would  ejaculate  with  an  outcry  at  the  foul 
memory  of  her  servant.     Night  and  day  she  re- 
volved the  same  imprecatory  thoughts,  and  her 
very  dreams  stirred  the  anger  of  her  slender  limbs 
in  her  bed. 

Was  it  possible!  Germinie!  her  Germinie!  She 
could  not  get  over  it.  Debts!  A  child!  All  sorts 
of  disgracefulness!  The  profligate!  She  abhorred 
and  detested  her.  Had  she  lived  she  would  have 
gone  and  denounced  her  to  the  commissary  of 
police.  She  would  have  liked  to  believe  in  hell, 
that  she  might  commend  her  to  the  tortures  which 
chastise  the  dead.  Her  maid  was  such  a  character 
as  that!  A  girl  who  had  been  in  her  service  for 
twenty  years,  and  whom  she  had  loaded  with 
kindness!  Drunkenness!  She  had  sunk  so  low 
as  that!  The  horror  that  follows  upon  an  evil 
dream  came  to  mademoiselle,  and  all  the  disgust 
rising  from  her  soul  cried  shame  upon  this  dead 

£318:1 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

woman  whose  grave  had  vomited  her  life  and 
rejected  her  filthiness. 

How  she  had  deceived  her!  How  the  wretch 
had  pretended  to  love  her!  And  that  her  in- 
gratitude and  knavery  might  be  displayed  still 
more  clearly,  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  recalled 
her  endearments,  her  attentions,  her  jealousies 
which  seemed  as  though  they  worshipped  her. 
She  could  see  her  bending  over  her  when  she  was 
sick.  She  thought  again  of  her  caresses.  And  it 
was  all  a  lie!  Her  devotion  was  a  lie!  The 
happiness  of  her  kisses,  the  love  of  her  lips  were 
lies!  Mademoiselle  told  herself  this,  repeating 
it  to  herself,  and  persuading  herself  of  it;  and 
yet  from  these  awakened  memories,  from  these 
evocations  whose  bitterness  she  sought,  from  the 
distant  sweetness  of  bygone  days,  there  rose  up 
gradually  and  slowly  within  her  a  first  softening 
of  pity. 

She  drove  away  the  thoughts  which  allowed 
her  anger  to  flag;  but  her  musing  brought  them 
back  again.  There  occurred  to  her  those  things  to 
which  she  had  paid  no  attention  during  Germinie's 
lifetime,  such  trifles  as  the  tomb  suggests  and  death 
illumines.  She  had  a  dim  recollection  of  certain 
singularities  on  the  part  of  this  girl,  feverish  out- 
pourings, agitated  embraces,  kneelings  that  seemed 
preparatory  to  confessions,  movements  of  lips  upon 
which  a  secret  seemed  to  hang.  With  the  eyes 
which  we  have  for  those  who  are  no  more,  she 

C3I9:] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

reviewed  Germinie's  sad  looks,  the  gestures  and 
attitudes  that  she  displayed,  her  countenances  of 
despair.  And  she  could  now  divine  beneath  them 
wounds,  sores,  rendings,  the  tortures  of  her  agonies 
and  repentances,  the  blood-tears  of  her  remorse, 
all  kinds  of  stifled  sufferings  throughout  her  life 
and  her  person,  a  passion  of  shame  which  dared 
not  ask  for  forgiveness  save  by  its  silence! 

Then  she  scolded  herself  for  thinking  this,  and 
blamed  herself  as  an  old  fool.  Her  rigid,  straight- 
forward instincts,  the  severity  of  conscience  and 
harshness  of  judgment  due  to  a  faultless  life,  all 
that  prompts  a  virtuous  woman  to  condemn  a 
female,  all  that  must  inevitably  prompt  a  saint 
like  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  to  be  pitiless 
towards  her  servant,  rebelled  against  forgiveness. 
Within  her,  justice,  stifling  her  kindness,  cried 
out:  "Never!  never!"  And  with  an  implacable 
gesture  she  drove  Germinie's  infamous  spectre 
away. 

At  times,  even,  to  render  the  damnation  and 
execration  of  this  recollection  still  more  irrevocable, 
she  accused  her  and  crushed  her,  and  calumniated 
her.  She  added  to  the  frightful  inheritance  of 
death.  She  reproached  Germinie  with  even  more 
than  she  had  to  reproach  her  with.  She  lent 
crimes  to  the  darkness  of  her  thoughts,  and  mur- 
derous desires  to  the  inpatience  of  her  dreams. 
She  wanted  to  think,  and  did  think,  that  she  had 
wished  and  looked  for  her  death. 

C320] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

But  at  this  very  moment,  amid  the  blackest 
gloom  of  thought  and  supposition,  a  vision  rose 
and  shone  before  her.  An  image  approached  that 
seemed  to  advance  towards  her  gaze,  an  image 
from  which  she  could  not  protect  herself,  which 
passed  through  the  hands  wherewith  she  sought 
to  repel  it,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil 
saw  her  dead  servant  once  more.  She  saw  the 
face  of  which  she  had  had  a  glimpse  at  the  amphi- 
theatre, that  crucified  face,  that  tortured  coun- 
tenance to  which  had  mounted  both  the  blood 
and  the  agony  of  a  heart.  She  saw  her  with  that 
soul  which  the  second-sight  of  memory  evolves 
from  things.  She  appeared  as  though  stripping 
herself  of  terror  and  horror.  Suffering  alone  re- 
mained to  her,  but  it  was  a  suffering  of  expiation, 
almost  of  prayer,  the  suffering  on  the  face  of  a 
dead  woman  who  would  fain  weep.  And  as  the 
expression  of  this  countenance  grew  constantly 
softer,  mademoiselle  could  at  last  see  in  it  a  be- 
seeching supplication,  a  supplication  which  in 
time  ensnared  her  pity.  Insensibly  there  crept 
into  her  reflections,  allowances,  palliating  thoughts 
at  which  she  was  herself  astonished.  She  asked 
herself  whether  the  poor  girl  were  as  guilty  as 
others,  whether  she  had  chosen  the  evil,  whether 
life,  and  circumstance,  and  misfortune  of  body 
and  destiny,  had  not  made  her  the  creature  she  had 
been,  a  being  of  love  and  sorrow.  And  then  she  sud- 
denly checked  herself,  for  she  was  ready  to  forgive! 

C32IH 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

One  morning  she  sprang  out  of  bed. 

"Here  you!  whatever  you're  called!"  she  cried 
to  her  charwoman,  "the  mischief  take  your  name, 
I  always  forget  it!  My  things,  quick,  I  have  to 
go  out." 

"Lord!  mademoiselle,  just  look  at  the  roofs. 
They're  quite  white." 

"Well,  it's  snowing;   that's  all." 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  Mademoiselle  de  Varan- 
deuil  was  saying  to  the  driver  of  the  cab  that  she 
had  sent  for: 

"The  Montmartre  cemetery!" 


LXX 

A  WALL  stretched  in  the  distance,  a  bound- 
ary wall  perfectly  straight  and  continu- 
ous. The  thread  of  snow  which  striped 
the  coping  gave  it  the  color  of  dirty  rust.  In  the 
corner  to  the  left,  three  bare  trees  reared  their 
dry,  black  branches  to  the  sky.  They  rustled 
mournfully  with  a  sound  of  dead  wood  clashing 
in  the  north  wind.  Above  these  trees,  behind  the 
wall  and  right  opposite,  rose  the  two  arms  on 
which  hung  one  of  the  last  oil  lamps  in  Paris.  A 
few  roofs  stood  at  intervals  here  and  there;  then 
began  the  slope  of  the  hill  of  Montmartre,  its 
shroud  of  snow  rent  by  streaks  of  earth  and  sandy 
patches.  Little  grey  walls  followed  the  line  of 
escarpment,  topped  by  thin,  meagre  trees  whose 
clusters  were  violaceous  in  the  mist,  and  reached 
away  as  far  as  two  black  mills. 

The  sky  was  leaden,  washed  with  the  cold, 
bluish  tints  of  ink  spread  with  a  brush,  while  for 
light  there  was  a  clear  and  perfectly  yellow  rift 
over  Montmartre  of  the  color  of  the  water  of  the 
Seine  after  heavy  rain.  Across  this  wintry  ray 
passed  and  repassed  the  arms  of  a  hidden  mill, 
arms  that  were  slow  and  undeviating  in  their  move- 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

ment,  and  that  seemed  to  be  revolving  eternity. 

In  front  of  the  wall,  which  was  overlaid  with 
a  bush  of  dead,  frost-reddened  cypress,  extended 
a  large  tract,  upon  which,  like  two  great  mourning 
processions,  there  descended  two  thick  rows  of 
serried,  crowded,  huddled,  overturned  crosses. 
These  crosses  touched  and  hustled  and  crowded 
one  another.  They  bent,  and  fell,  and  were 
crushed  by  the  way.  In  the  centre  there  was  a 
sort  of  strangulation  which  had  forced  them  out 
and  to  one  side:  they  could  be  seen  covered,  only 
raising  by  the  thickness  of  their  wood  the  snow  that 
lay  on  the  paths,  which,  somewhat  trodden  in 
the  middle,  ran  down  the  length  of  the  two  files. 
The  broken  ranks  undulated  with  the  fluctuation 
of  a  crowd,  wTith  the  disorder  and  serpentine  move- 
ment of  a  long  march.  The  black  crosses,  with 
their  outstretched  arms,  assumed  an  appearance 
of  shadows  and  persons  in  distress.  These  two 
straggling  columns  suggested  a  human  overthrow, 
a  desperate  and  terrified  army.  They  were  like 
a  terrible  rout. 

All  the  crosses  were  laden  with  wreaths  of  im- 
mortelles, wreaths  of  white  paper  with  silver  thread, 
black  wreaths  with  gold  thread;  but  the  snow 
beneath  made  them  show  out  worn  and  all  tar- 
nished, horrible  as  mementoes  rejected  by  the  other 
dead  and  picked  up  to  trick  out  the  crosses  with 
the  gleanings  of  graves. 

All  the  crosses  bore  names  written  in  white 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

letters;  but  there  were  also  names  which  were 
not  even  written  on  a  bit  of  wood;  and  a  tomb 
might  be  seen  there  formed  of  the  bough  of  a  tree 
broken  off  and  planted  in  the  ground,  with  the 
envelope  of  a  letter  tied  round  it! 

On  the  left,  where  a  trench  was  being  dug  for  a 
third  row  of  crosses,  a  workman's  pick  was  throw- 
ing up  black  earth,  which  fell  back  upon  the 
whiteness  of  the  embankment.  A  great  silence, 
the  dull  silence  of  the  snow,  enfolded  everything, 
and  two  sounds  only  were  audible,  the  deadened 
sound  of  the  shovelled  earth,  and  the  heavy  sound 
of  a  regular  footstep:  an  old  priest  who  was  in 
attendance,  with  his  head  in  a  black  cowl  and 
wearing  a  black  camail,  a  black  stole,  and  a  dirty 
yellow  surplice,  was  trying  to  warm  himself  by 
stamping  his  big  goloshes  on  the  pavement  of  the 
main  avenue  in  front  of  the  crosses. 

It  was  the  common  grave  that  day.  The 
ground,  the  crosses,  the  priest  expressed  these 
words : 

"Here  sleeps  the  Death  of  the  people,  and  the 
Nothingness  of  the  poor." 

O  Paris!  you  are  the  heart  of  the  world,  you 
are  the  great  human  city,  the  great  charitable  and 
fraternal  city! 

You  have  gentleness  of  spirit,  ancient  clemency 
of  manners,  and  sights  which  give  alms!  The 
poor  man  is  your  citizen  as  well  as  the  rich.  Your 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

churches  speak  of  Jesus  Christ;  your  laws  speak 
of  equality;  your  newspapers  speak  of  progress; 
all  your  governments  speak  of  the  people;  and 
it  is  there  that  you  fling  those  who  die  in  your 
service,  who  kill  themselves  in  creating  your  lux- 
ury, who  perish  from  the  mischief  of  your  indus- 
tries, who  have  sweated  out  their  lives  in  working 
for  you,  in  giving  you  your  comfort,  your  pleasures, 
your  splendors,  who  have  made  your  animation, 
your  noise,  who  have  placed  the  chain  of  their 
existences  in  your  duration  as  a  capital,  who  have 
been  the  crowd  in  your  streets  and  the  people  of 
your  greatness! 

Each  one  of  your  cemeteries  has  a  like  shame- 
ful corner,  hidden  at  the  end  of  a  wall,  where  you 
hasten  to  bury  them,  and  where  you  cast  the 
earth  upon  them  in  such  niggardly  shovelfuls 
that  the  foot  of  their  coffins  may  be  seen  coming 
through.  It  is  as  though  your  charity  were 
checked  at  your  last  sigh,  as  though  your  only 
free  gift  were  the  bed  of  suffering,  and  as  though, 
the  hospital  apart,  you  who  are  so  enormous  and 
superb  had  no  further  room  for  these  folk!  You 
keep  them,  and  crowd  them,  and  mingle  them  in 
death  as  a  hundred  years  ago  you  mingled  their 
dying  agonies  beneath  the  sheets  in  your  public 
Hospitals!  Even  yesterday  you  had  not  so  much 
as  the  priest  on  duty  to  throw  a  little,  common 
holy  water  upon  all  comers,  nor  the  smallest 
prayer ! 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

But  what  this  priest  blesses  is  still  the  same: 
a  hole  wherein  the  deal  knocks  together,  and  the 
dead  are  not  at  home!  Corruption  is  common 
there;  no  one  has  his  own,  but  each  one  has  that 
of  all;  'tis  the  promiscuousness  of  the  worm! 
In  the  devouring  soil  a  Montfaucon  hastens  for 
the  Catacombs.  For  the  dead  have  neither  time 
nor  space  to  rot;  the  earth  is  taken  from  them  be- 
fore the  earth  has  finished!  —  before  their  bones 
have  the  color  and  as  it  were  the  ancientness  of 
stone,  before  the  years  have  effaced  a  remnant 
of  humanity  upon  them  and  the  memory  of  a 
body!  The  clearing  is  made  while  the  earth  is 
still  themselves,  and  they  are  the  damp  mould 
into  which  the  spade  sinks.  The  earth  that  is  lent 
them  —  why,  it  does  not  enclose  so  much  as  the 
odor  of  death!  The  summer,  the  wind  which 
passes  across  this  scarcely  buried  human  sewer, 
wafts  the  impious  miasma  from  it  over  the  city 
of  the  living.  In  the  burning  days  of  August,  the 
keepers  prevent  us  from  going  so  far,  for  there 
are  flies  that  have  the  poison  of  the  charnel-house, 
flies  that  are  carbuncled  and  that  kill! 

Mademoiselle  arrived  here  after  passing  the 
wall  and  vault  which  separate  the  perpetual  from 
the  temporary  concessions.  Following  the  direc- 
tion of  a  keeper,  she  went  up  between  the  last 
file  of  crosses  and  the  newly  opened  trench.  And 
there,  walking  upon  buried  wreaths,  and  upon 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

the  oblivion  of  the  snow,  she  came  to  a  hole,  to 
the  opening  of  the  grave.  It  was  stopped  up  with 
old  rotten  planks  and  a  sheet  of  oxidized  zinc  upon 
which  a  digger  had  thrown  his  blue  blouse.  The 
earth  sank  behind  to  the  bottom,  where  it  left 
visible  three  coffins  outlined  in  their  sinister  ele- 
gance: there  was  a  large  one  and  two  smaller  ones 
a  little  way  back.  The  crosses  of  the  week,  of  two 
days  before,  of  the  previous  day,  descended  along 
the  channel  of  earth;  they  were  slipping,  and 
sinking,  and  seemed  to  be  making  great  strides, 
as  though  they  were  being  hurried  down  the  slope 
of  a  precipice. 

Mademoiselle  began  to  go  up  past  these  crosses, 
bending  over  each,  spelling  out  the  date,  seeking 
for  the  names  with  her  bad  eyesight.  She  reached 
some  crosses  of  the  8th  of  November;  it  was  the 
day  before  that  of  Germinie's  death,  and  Ger- 
minie  must  be  close  by.  There  were  five  crosses 
of  the  Qth  of  November,  five  crosses  huddled  to- 
gether; Germinie  was  not  among  the  crowd. 
Mademoiselle  de  Varandeuil  went  a  little  further 
on,  to  the  crosses  of  the  loth,  then  to  those  of  the 
nth,  then  to  those  of  the  I2th.  She  came  back 
to  the  8th,  and  again  looked  everywhere:  there 
was  absolutely  nothing  —  Germinie  had  been 
buried  without  a  cross!  Not  even  a  piece  of  wood 
had  been  set  up  by  which  she  might  be  known! 

At  last  the  old  lady  let  herself  fall  on  her  knees 
in  the  snow  between  two  crosses,  one  dated  the 

£328;] 


GERMINIE    LACERTEUX 

pth  of  November,  and  the  other  the  loth.  What 
remained  of  Germinie  must  be  close  by.  Her 
uncared-for  tomb  was  this  uncared-for  soil.  To 
pray  over  her  it  was  needful  to  pray  at  haphazard 
between  two  dates  —  as  though  the  poor  girl's  des- 
tiny had  willed  that  there  should  be  as  little  room 
on  earth  for  her  body  as  there  had  been  for  her 
heart! 


£3293 


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